


Speaker for the Bees

by Millie (Wren_K)



Series: Hoʻokalakupua [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, M/M, Magical Realism, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:04:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wren_K/pseuds/Millie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawaii’s Five-0 task force is charged with the investigation and pursuit of all major magical crime on the islands. The vicious murder of an elderly witch pulls the team into a case of disgruntled demons, confession compelling curses, and just a pinch of pixie dust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Suzy - whose fault this is - and Angie, who spent nearly as much time cheerleading this story as I did writing it.
> 
> My profound gratitude to Alison - for the staggeringly involved beta job that she did at damned near the eleventh hour. You are a marvel.
> 
> Thank you very much, Sillyowl for the lovely cover and gorgeous gifset. Her AO3 masterpost may be found [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6427945)
> 
> And finally - thank you to the mods for all your efforts. This was my first Big Bang and I enjoyed myself immensely. I can honestly say that this story wouldn't have seen the light of day without the looming terror of a deadline.

 

  [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ananashelvetti/25597462714/in/dateposted-public/)

 

* * *

The hives were happy, soaking up the first length of sunshine in nearly a week. Maile Watne moved easily between the elaborately carved boxes, refreshing wards and talking to her bees. Her bare hands were stiff with arthritis, but she handled the bees with warm proficiency. As she worked, she began humming the blessing she’d sung to her hives for more than seventy years. It was an expression of gratitude for the hives’ generosity and a renewal of the invitation to the queens to share in the shelter of Maile’s home.

Maile latched the final hive and finished with the blessing, content in the health and mood of her bees. She would tackle the garden after lunch, she decided. That kava-kava was looking a little wilted. 

She dropped her sunhat on the lanai and toed off her muck boots. “ʻīlio,” she hollered, scanning the yard for the piebald bulldog that rarely wandered far from the sheltered porch. Maile gave a whistle that reverberated around the small valley. “Lunch, you fool mutt,” she added, sliding her feet into the waiting slippahs. She wasn’t worried; the dog had a sixth sense when it came to food.

She was through the kitchen and halfway to the bedroom before she registered the presence of the man in the living room. “Now how’d you get in here?” she asked, drawing her power up and reaching for the wards worked into the very bones of her home. There was a queer, empty feeling where there should have been strength—the wards were gone. Her hearth was dead.

The stranger, his long limbs sprawled insolently over the sofa, rose to his feet. He was lean and sharp like a mako’s tooth. On the hardwood floor at his feet a summoning circle had been drawn in viscous liquid. It tasted of death when her questing magic brushed against the boundary.

Inside the circle, _something_ stirred.

  


* * *

  


The crime scene lay at the top of a dirt track that Steve alleged was an actual road. After twenty minutes of Steve gleefully voiding the warranty on his shock absorbers, Danny was prepared for the house to match the approach. Instead, it was a cozy little house painted a cheerful shade of blue with a neat yard that reminded Danny of his great-grandmother’s house back in Jersey. Bisnonna Fugazzi had always been fond of flowers. 

It was a shame to see the tidy yard crowded with an assortment of patrol cars, Max’s Medical Examiner van, the crime scene unit’s mobile lab, and the various transports favorited by the members of Five-0. It seemed like half of Honolulu Police Department had turned out for the scene, which gave Danny the uncomfortable suspicion that this was going to turn into a nightmare of a case.

Danny climbed out and surveyed the garden. He recognized the hallmarks of a witch’s herb garden. That was an ominous sign. To kill a witch within their own holding generally meant one of two things: the killer was either someone close enough to the victim that the wards didn’t register them as a threat; or came loaded with enough firepower to overwhelm the witch’s defenses. Even if the witch was only mildly gifted, threshold protections were an extremely strong magical phenomenon. 

A fat honeybee meandered drunkenly through the air and landed on Danny’s sleeve. It clung to the folded cloth, its antennae and legs jerking spasmodically. Danny crossed the lawn and gently placed the insect onto a shaded flower petal. It took two wobbling steps and then collapsed against the cupped bloom.

Steve watched him with an indulgent grin.

“What?” Danny bristled.

“Nothing, Doctor Dolittle,” Steve answered, his grin blossoming into a fond smile.

Danny huffed. “Grace has been learning about bees in her craft lessons. Apparently, they are honored messengers. We don’t need bees spreading bad gossip about us, okay?”

“And then there’s the whole collapse of the food supply without pollinators,” Steve teased, elbowing Danny. “But the reputation thing is important too.”

Danny echoed Steve’s grin. It was the last time either of them felt like smiling for a while.

The path of violence tracked backward from the carport into the house, bloodied footprints strode away from the open door. They tracked the killer’s movements in reverse, advancing cautiously around the evidence markers.

The inside of the house had been destroyed. Furniture was shattered and bookshelves upended. Danny couldn’t tell if the killer had been searching for something, or if the damage was an extension of the extreme magical violence that had been used against the victim.

It wasn’t the worst scene he’d ever attended—and Danny hated that he had an index for that in his head—but it came pretty damned close. 

Max crouched near the kitchen, next to the head and upper torso of an elderly woman. The arm that was still attached was outflung toward the living room, the palm stretched tight while the fingers twisted inward. Even across the short distance, Danny could see the flash burns of an improperly released spell. 

She’d fought back, he thought with grim satisfaction. Good for her.

“What do we have, Max?” Steve asked, managing, as he always did with Max, to sound both commanding and gentle.

“The victim is an eighty-seven-year-old Asian female. Preliminary cause of death appears to be exsanguination as the result of traumatic hemicorporectomy,” Max supplied without looking up. 

“What’s that mean for those of us who didn’t go to medical school?” Danny asked, trying to find a safe place to look.

“Blood loss due to being torn in half,” Max responded. “Due to the trauma inflicted on the body, time of death may take some time to pinpoint, but my initial estimate is eighteen to twenty-four hours ago.”

“Thanks, Max,” Steve said. “What do we know about the victim?”

“Deceased’s name is Maile Watne,” Chin said, rifling through a straw purse as he exited the bedroom. “Widowed, only resident of the house. Body was discovered by her niece and apprentice Nalani Kaneko.”

“Apprentice?” Danny asked

“Until yesterday, Mrs. Watne was the Kaneko family’s Speaker for the Bees.” 

Danny’s eyebrows shot up. “And I was worried we might get a normal case for once.” He cast a critical eye over the living room, picking up the signs in the mess now that he was looking for them. “I’m guessing the title means she’s not a lightweight.”

“No. Not a lightweight,” Chin said.

“That’s not alarming at all.” 

“Was her threshold still intact when the first responders arrived?” Steve asked. He was surveying the room with the intent and slightly blind look that Danny recognized as him using his second sight.

“She’s the only resident,” Chin answered. “The threshold would have failed when she died. There’s no way to tell if it broke before that. I’m not sensing any wards either.”

“I don’t see anything,” Steve confirmed. “But if she was that powerful, there should still be residual traces of the wards. Danny, can you?”

Danny nodded. Steve shepherded the technicians, and their sensitive equipment, toward the kitchen and away from Danny. No sense in aggravating allies by unmaking their personal charms and magics.

Danny formed a tiny ball of will in his chest; just enough to activate the binding curse that kept his magic cut-off and Danny safely concealed. The ache of bitter temptation flared, just as it did every time Danny reached for his mostly useless powers. He supposed it would be simpler if he couldn’t unweave the binding. Instead he lived with the constant itch of how easily he could have his magic back—at least until it sparked off a signal flare that led straight to Grace. That thought was always sobering splash of cold water. 

He turned his focus away from the worn out internal argument and back to the scene. Danny pushed the gathered magic outward against the invisible strands that wrapped him head to toe like an impossibly fine net. The quicksilver threads flickered to life and greedily devoured the offered magic. 

Once the spell was awake, Danny dropped his magic and concentrated on the information that filtered back through the curse as it sought out other magic to consume. It was a bit like echolocation, giving Danny a sense of the shape and strength of nearby bits of magic. It was the only thing his magic was good for in this state, and it required a delicate balance to get the curse active enough to find something without destroying it in the process.

There was a wrongness emanating from the floor, but he could feel no trace of the wards he expected in the house of a powerful witch like the victim, not even the magical residue that accumulated whenever humans claimed a place for long enough. The deadness was alien, unsettling and wrong. He had felt the sensation exactly one time previously—at the murder scene of John McGarrett.

Danny automatically flicked his eyes toward Steve in concern. Fuck. This was going to be one of those cases.

Fredrick Doran, the charms mechanic who had crafted the hex bag that had shattered John McGarrett’s defenses was dead by Danny’s gun; Victor Hesse, who had used that hex bag, was presumed dead by Steve’s. 

It wasn’t comforting to come across the same M.O. six months later at a completely unrelated crime scene. He asked quietly, “Steve, could your dad have known the victim?”

Steve tensed, the air around him sharpening. “I don’t know. Maybe. He was involved in a lot of stuff we didn’t discuss. I doubt Hesse was Doran’s only client on the island.”

“So we could still be looking at a coincidence.” Danny couldn’t even convince himself of that. He used his toe to nudge aside some of the scattered papers on the living room floor. The thick curve of a summoning circle was branded into the wood. At the heart of the etched line was a rust-brown stain. 

“I think I have cause of death,” Danny announced, nauseated. Blood magic always made his skin crawl. 

“Whatcha got,” Steve asked. He crowded into Danny, trying to see what he was looking at. Instead of being annoyed at the invasion of his personal space, Danny felt his nausea receding. 

“Summoning circle.” Danny crouched down, rather than lean into Steve’s warmth as he wanted to, and started clearing away more of the strewn pages. “Western European in structure. I don’t know most of the symbols, but that one,” he said pointing to a squiggle that looked vaguely like a snake chewing out its own throat, “is for binding to the caster’s will. And this one,” he tapped a sigil in the inner circle, “definitely means ‘to call forth.’ I’d be willing to bet that our murder weapon has claws and distinct eau de sulfur.”

Max looked up. “I have found nothing to contradict that hypothesis, but it is still too early to speculate.”

“Thanks, Max.”

“So it’s done in blood, yeah?” Steve asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, it can’t have been hers if whatever was summoned killed her,” Steve pointed out.

“Shit.” Danny stood up, but his head drooped. “We’ve got another victim. Anyone know if the deceased had any pets or grandkids?” The question sat like bile on his tongue.

Chin waved to a photo that miraculously still hung drunkenly on the wall. “Yes to both.”

“Fuck.” 

Steve clapped Danny on the arm, his hand warm through the light cotton sleeve. Danny straightened up and reached for his professional detachment. 

“All right people,” Steve announced to the CSU techs still documenting the scene, “we’re looking for a second body in the area. Our suspect had to handle the first kill himself, so this is our best shot at finding some physical evidence.”

The pitiful form of the second body was uncovered once the techs shifted one of the toppled bookcases. Danny was torn between disgust that anyone could use such violence against a dog, and weak with relief that it wasn’t a child.

“Max, can you perform the autopsy on the dog?” Steve asked, “Or do we need to find a forensic veterinarian?”

“While technically, the words are interchangeable, popular nomenclature when referring to a post-mortem examination on an animal is a necropsy.” Max finished bagging the body part he’d been documenting. “There is a forensic veterinarian at the University that the department contracts with in such cases.” 

“Okay, have them put a rush on the dog,” Steve said. “Maybe our killer left something for us to work with.”

“Hey.” Kono was at the door to the carport, pulling on a pair of black gloves. “Found tire impressions for a small motorcycle at the edge of the property. Looks like someone hid a bike in the brush up there some time after the rains stopped.”

Steve nodded. “That fits our timeline.”

“I’ve got uniforms canvassing the neighbors and there’s a gas station at the bottom of the hill that might have CCTV footage.” She hesitated, then added, “There’s something out back you guys should see.”

They followed her out, turning the scene back over to the technicians. 

The devastation inside the house had been repeated in the back garden. The neatly stacked hive boxes had been savagely ripped apart by massive claws. Deep gouges marred the ornately carved wards that had scorched as the protective spells flared and failed. The bodies of dead bees radiated outward from their ruined homes in thick spirals on the ground.

Beside Danny, Chin froze, breath stopping with an audible gasp. 

Danny squeezed Chin’s shoulder gently. It unnerved him to see the normally unflappable detective rattled. “What’s the significance of the bees? You called the vic ‘Speaker for the Bees,’ what does that mean?”

“Bees.” Chin cleared his throat. “Native bees are messengers to the hidden world for us. They carry entreaties to friendly beings, asking for their help. They negotiate peace with offended spirits. Honey bees, when they were introduced to the island, continued that service. Our style of magic actually adapted to incorporate the gifts of the honey bee. Most magical families on the island maintain hives of both nalo meli maoli and nalo meli. The Speaker tends them, interprets messages—it’s a position of honor.” 

“So why would someone destroy the hives? What do they gain?”

“Killing off a family’s beehives is crippling. The longer a hive has been attuned to a family, the more harmonized they are to that specific style of magic. These bees have probably been aligned with the Kaneko family for more than a hundred years. Even if they replace the hives, that history is gone. The entire clan will be diminished. Their spells won’t have the same strength; their messages won’t have the same diplomatic effect.”

“Okay, do you think attacking the hives could be the motive? Another family maybe?” Danny had seen plenty of violence between the magical families back east; he’d thought the Hawaiian conflict resolution system was more refined than that.

“I—it’s possible that the Kanekos are feuding with someone. But this is so over the top. Honestly, I’d expect human death before I’d expect someone to go after the bees.”

“Well, Mrs. Watne’s pretty dead,” Danny pointed out, his tone softer than his words.

“Right. I know. I meant on a bigger scale.”

“So, you said her niece found her?”

“Yeah. She was hysterical when HPD arrived. She went by ambulance to Queen’s Medical Center. I think they had to sedate her.”

“Great, that means we won’t get a statement from her for hours. If she’s the apprentice, she’s probably the best one to take a look and see if anything is missing.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was, in fact, closer to a day and a half, before Chin and Kono were allowed to question Nalani Kaneko. The interview was held at the unassuming home of Aulani Kaneko, who was both the girl’s great-grandmother and the family matriarch. From the chilly atmosphere, Chin deduced that the Kaneko family had decided the investigation was as much a violation as the murder.

Chin and Kono were shown to a sunny room that was a virtual twin to any number of aunties’ living rooms that they’d known growing up.

Refreshments were offered and declined and provided anyway. Kono automatically raised the glass of iced tea to her lips. Chin subtly waved her off.

“There’s no obligation asked or offered for this hospitality,” he said formally.

“None is sought,” Aulani answered, a hint of challenge in her eye. “This hospitality is given freely and without burden of obligation.”

Chin bowed his head. “My thanks.” He lifted the glass of lightly sweetened tea and took a long drink. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kono do the same.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Nalani,” he addressed the girl directly for the first time. “I’m Detective Kelly, and this is Officer Kalakaua.”

Nalani Kaneko sat on a gaudy floral sofa opposite them, bracketed by her great-grandmother Aulani and great-uncle Hale. Both were stone-faced and disapproving. Aulani grunted when Chin introduced himself, her mouth twisted in a moue. Chin didn’t know if it was because he was a Kelly, or if it was because he was _that_ Kelly.

Nalani was a sturdy young woman of sixteen, with a sweet, sun-kissed face more suited to cheerfulness than pinched gray grief. She wore the school uniform of an elite private school and her book bag rested at her feet. Chin was surprised at her composure—he’d never discovered a vivisected relative before, but if he had, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have gone to school the next day.

“How long were you Maile’s apprentice?” he asked.

She flicked a sideways glance at her great-grandmother before she answered. “I’ve been promised to her service for eleven years. My apprenticeship formally began three years ago.”

“You were five? That’s young, isn’t it?” Kono asked, leaning back in her chair, giving the appearance of settling in, though Chin knew her sharp eyes were studying every detail of the three people seated across from them.

“The bees talked to me.” Nalani shrugged, humble nonchalance undermined by the obvious pride in her eyes. 

“When was the last time you spoke with your aunt?” 

She frowned, and Chin thought he saw a hint of guilt in the way her lips twisted. “The afternoon before she died. I’m supposed to have lessons every afternoon after school, but I’m in AP classes and our exams are coming up. She let me cut back my time with her so I can study. I’ve been accepted for early enrollment at University of Hawaii.”

Chin was surprised. He knew that most families valued a magical apprenticeship over a mundane degree, but obviously Maile had seen something in Nalani to advocate both forms of training. However, that wasn’t a topic he wanted to raise at the moment, not with the family still so suspicious of his presence in their home. He steered the conversation back to the murder. “I want you to think back to the weeks before the murder, do you remember anyone odd hanging about? Anyone paying too much attention to your aunt?”

Nalani shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. Look, I know you think my auntie was some frail old lady, but she was a badass.”

“Nalani,” Aulani scolded, pinching the soft crook of her elbow hard. “Language.”

“Sorry, Tutu.” Nalani rubbed at the sore spot. “Auntie Maile was the strongest witch I know. She was teaching me to cast off-the-cuff, without a circle.” She dabbed at her eyes. 

“I think Nalani’s answered enough questions,” her great-uncle said in a firm tone. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“Actually,” Chin hedged, “we’d like to take Nalani back out to the crime scene. We need to know if anything was stolen.”

“I knew your kapunawahine,” the old woman said abruptly, pinning Chin with a hard look.

“You knew my gran?” Chin echoed, thrown by the non sequitur. 

“Yes. I knew your kapunawahine before she was a Kelly.” Her disdainful sniff said she didn’t think the change in family name had been an improvement.

“We’ll be sure to pass on your regards,” Kono said dryly, coming to Chin’s rescue. “Is the Kaneko family in conflict with anyone?”

“No. We mind our own business, unlike some families.”

“It would be helpful to know if anything was stolen,” Chin plowed on ahead doggedly. There were lots of Kellys in HPD and that didn’t tend to endear them to everyone. It was, at least, a familiar source of tension. 

“So you can steal our spells?” Her chin was up, will apparently cast from the same iron as her hair. “No. We will go through my sister’s things and tell you if there is anything missing.”

“That’s not—“ Kono started, temper rising.

“I’ll go with you.” 

Chin wasn’t sure who was more startled at Nalani’s statement, the girl or her grandmother. 

Nalani controlled her surprise faster than the older woman did. Her chin came up in a defiant echo of Aulani’s expression. 

“Nalani!”

“No, Tutu. I’m Speaker for the Kaneko Bees now. We promised the hives protection for service, but we failed. I can give them justice. Auntie, too.”

Nalani wasn’t kin, but in that moment, he felt proud of her and the way she shouldered the Speaker’s mantle. The Kaneko hives would be in excellent hands. Chin hid a smile as he caught the growing admiration on Aulani’s face. “Thank you, Speaker,” he said, feeling the occasion called for a touch of formality.

  


* * *

  


Steve finished scanning through the ViCAP report they’d received back on the Watne M.O. There were a few potential points of similarity, but nothing that felt like it shared the crime’s D.N.A. A notice popped up on the monitor—a message from the warden at Halawa. Jovan Etienne, the only living link to Hesse that Steve could currently lay hands on, had been present for the evening roll call, just as he had been for the past one hundred and fifty-seven days since the shootout on the cargo ship, excepting a few nights in the hospital. The warden had also attached Etienne’s visitor and phone logs, but the only name that appeared on either was that of his attorney.

Steve scowled at the monitor as though it were personally responsible for the failure of his theory. It wasn’t that he wanted Etienne to be behind Maile Watne’s murder, but between the dead wards and the western European spell work, the cases felt connected. 

Leaning back in his chair, Steve was surprised at the late hour.

For once, the hush of HQ at night felt cozy to Steve, instead of oppressive. Grace, Danny’s eight-year-old daughter, was sprawled on his sofa, legs kicked straight up the backrest, head dangling off the seat. She had a surprisingly robust snore for such a sweet girl. Danny was rustling around in the outer office, looking for something before retreating back into his own area. Steve glanced at the clock—it was almost 2200. They were still waiting to hear the fruits of Chin and Kono’s second pass through the crime scene.

As though summoned by the thought, Steve’s phone lit up with Chin’s smiling face. “Hey Chin,” Steve answered quietly. He glanced over at the sofa and was happy that the ringer hadn’t disturbed Gracie. Steve cradled the cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he absently gathered empty take-out containers around his office. 

“Hey. We just finished up,” Chin reported. “Nalani was able to account for all of the magical books and items with the exception of her aunt’s personal grimoire.”

Damn, that wasn’t good. They wouldn’t be able to find an exact copy of a personal spellbook.

“Fortunately,” Chin continued, “Nalani has almost the entirety of the book copied down in her own notes. So if the killer was after a particular spell, we may have a copy of it. Of course, he might have had some other motive.”

“Stop. Your optimism is overwhelming me,” Steve chided, happy with his team’s work. 

Chin huffed a laugh. “Kono’s gonna drop Nalani off, then we’re done for the day.”

“Okay. Good work, you two. Get some sleep.” He dumped the trashliner from his office in the larger garbage can in the breakroom. “Danny’s got a number for someone at University of Paris who might be able to identify the summoning spell that was used. After that we’re calling it a day.”

“Sure thing.” 

After he hung up, Steve was satisfied with the progress his team had made. They knew what the killer had been after (probably). Danny would shortly have the how (hopefully). All they needed then was the who. That part was Steve’s favorite. Usually, it preceded some excitement. 

Steve entered Danny’s office without so much as a courtesy knock and dropped into the chair opposite Danny. He put his feet on the edge of the desk and pushed back, tilting the chair. That earned him the predicted scowl from his partner though Danny’s attention stayed mostly on the phone in his hand.

Danny stretched across the desk and poked at the bottom of Steve’s boots with a pen, trying to push them off the desk. Steve answered with an insolent grin and settled in deeper. 

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Danny asked, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. He glared pointedly at Steve’s feet.

Steve shrugged and flashed a smirk at his friend that was precisely calibrated to spin the other man up. “Nope. Not really.”

The phone call drew Danny’s attention back. He listened and then pecked away at a translation site. “Non. Non. Je dois savoir où il a été appris. Oui, le sortilège.” He listened intently, silently mouthing the words the other party was saying. “Parlez plus lentement, s'il vous plait.”

Steve let his eyes close and head drop back while he blatantly enjoyed Danny’s stumbling attempts to converse in French. 

“Indicible? Indic—?” Danny made a few stabs at the keyboard, while he muttered under his breath. “Unspeakable? Pourquoi?”

“Oh. Je vois. Merci.”

“En anglais? Merci beaucoup. À tout à l'heure.” The phone clicked down with an expelled huff of relief. 

Steve grinned without lifting his head or opening his eyes. “I think you just told that man you would see him later. Hot date?”

“Shut up. Next time you can make the call in the language you don’t actually speak.”

Steve laughed. His feet dropped to the floor, momentum snapping the chair upright. “I thought you said you spoke French.”

“No. What I said was that I learned enough to sort of keep up with Rachel on our honeymoon. Back when I was still trying to impress her. It wasn’t much and it was a long time ago.”

“So what’d you find out?”

“That the named demon is banned and everything else will have to go through a translator.”

Steve chuckled. “I talked to Chin. The only thing we know for sure is missing is the victim’s grimoire, but the niece has copies of just about everything in it. So at least it’s a starting place.”

Danny pulled a thoughtful face. “Good. We’re actually ahead of where I thought we’d be.” He stretched his arms overhead, rolling his neck from side to side to work the kinks out. “We should head out. It’s past Grace’s bedtime.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty sacked out.” 

“She gets that from her mother,” Danny said. “Rachel could sleep anywhere. Give her thirty minutes and she’d fit in a nap. I used to give her grief about being narcoleptic.” The soft smile fell and his eyes darkened, lost in the past. “I don’t think getting the recommended eight is a high priority when you’re hunting down witches for a fanatical cult.”

Danny stood abruptly. He shut down his computer with abrupt jabs of the mouse, then stood and locked the file drawers.

Steve got up and waited from the doorway, trying to keep the concern off his face. Danny rarely spoke about his missing ex-wife and almost never in the context of her former life with the Caskuri cult; two mentions inside of ten minutes pinged on Steve’s ‘Danny Williams Emotional Status Radar.’ 

Steve trailed behind as Danny finished in his own office and made his way to Steve’s. Grace’s homework was scattered in a wide arc on the floor in front of the sofa. Danny tucked books and worksheets into her pink and purple backpack and slung the bag over one arm. 

Danny’s expression—his whole attitude—became softer as he looked down at his daughter. The loosened tie, the rumpled shirt, and the disheveled hair that denoted the bristly, no-nonsense Jersey cop became, suddenly, the warm informality of a doting father. Steve liked Danny like this, felt privileged that he was allowed to witness the transformation. He felt such a surge of affection for his partner that it physically hurt his chest. 

Danny shrugged the small bag up onto his shoulder and moved to pick Grace up. The backpack slipped as he bent over but Danny twitched it up onto his back before it could fall on Grace.

“I can get her,” Steve said hastily, stepping forward.

“You sure?” Danny asked, faintly surprised, though his mouth turned up in a gentle, pleased smile that lit Steve up like New Year’s fireworks over the ocean. The tug in his chest was back. He’d worry about the sensation if it didn’t feel so damned much like home.

Steve shrugged, feeling unaccountably shy. “Yeah, no problem.”

“Thanks, babe.”

  
  


Steve took the opportunity for recon while Danny got Grace settled in her bedroom. There wasn’t actually a lot of snooping to be accomplished in the tiny apartment, but Steve made the most of it. One corner of the front room was dominated by a child-sized desk and a carefully reinforced casting circle where Grace practiced her magic lessons. 

Steve recognized the forma that was laid out: a basic shield spell, similar to the one he’d first learned as a child. He’d known that Grace was learning from a Kalakaua cousin, so he shouldn’t have been surprised that the layout was kama’iana. He wondered if it ever bothered Danny that his daughter was learning magic in what amounted to a foreign language, but Steve also knew Danny wasn’t able to pass on his own heritage at the moment, and might never be. 

He leaned over the desk to study the photo hanging in a place of honor above Grace’s desk. It was a candid picture of a pretty brunette snuggling a much younger Grace. Steve was fascinated with Danny’s ex-wife, if only because the man gave such conflicting impressions of her. When Danny would actually talk about Rachel his accounts were a blend of admiration and affection for the mother of his child, the bruised heartache of a failed relationship, and the furious grief for a missing friend. Danny never said much about the day he and Grace had fled New Jersey ahead of Caskuri hunters leaving Rachel behind, but Steve knew it was never far from his friend’s thoughts.

A white rabbit stirred in its cage. Mr. Hoppy, Grace’s familiar, had been roused from sleep by Steve’s incursion into his Mistress’s territory and gave a low, irritated rumble of warning, losing some of his innate bunnyness and gaining a bristling edge. Steve smiled, amused by the attempted intimidation coming from such a tiny fluff ball, but backed away from Grace’s space. Mr. Hoppy sniffed disdainfully and turned away from Steve, spraying wood shavings behind him with a powerful kick. 

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” Danny said from the doorway, “he’s going through a phase where he hates anyone who isn’t Grace.”

Steve huffed a small laugh. “I can’t imagine where he picked up that attitude.”

Danny gave him a tired smile. “Hey, I like people,” he protested.

Steve hummed skeptically. “Have you heard anything?” He gestured to the photo of Grace and Rachel.

“No.” Danny dropped onto the pull-out couch. “I closed the second drop point. I’d already left it months longer than I should have. I just kept hoping, you know? How do I tell Grace that I cut her mother off—that I gave up on her? For all I know, she’s dead, or a Caskuri zombie. The next time Grace sees Rachel her mother might be snapping a collar around her throat. Rachel fought so hard to be her own person. The thought of her in their hands again…” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, catching the fear he couldn’t bring himself to voice against his palm. 

“Hey. Hey.” Steve sat down beside Danny and let his hand curl around the other man’s neck. “I don’t know Rachel, but I know you and Grace. If she’s half as strong as you two are, she’s gonna turn up any day, right as rain. Sometimes plans have to be fluid and you have to improvise. That can take a surprisingly long time. Okay? So just trust me on this. It’ll be fine. Giving yourself an ulcer isn’t helping anybody, especially not Grace.”

They sat in heavy silence for a long minute. Steve’s thumb traced soothing circles against Danny’s spine. Sooner than Steve would have liked, Danny was drawing himself up and pulling away. The faint look of embarrassment gutted him. 

“You should go, get some sleep—since we both know you’re going to swim around the island in the morning. Just have my car back here by 7:30; you know Grace takes tardiness very seriously. 

Steve knew his grin was slightly too broad for the command. “I’ll bring breakfast.”

“Kale smoothies are not breakfast. Tomorrow’s Wednesday, that means…”

“…oatmeal with apples,” Steve supplied.

“It does. I won’t even ask why you know that.” Danny rolled his eyes. “If you’re nice, I’ll make extra.”

“I’m always nice,” Steve protested.

“Sure, babe, anything you say.” Danny patted Steve’s knee and used it to leverage himself upright and then pulled Steve up after him. “Go on, go home and get some sleep. I’d say thanks for the lift home, but seeing as it’s my car and you’re leaving with it, I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”

“You’re welcome, Danno,” Steve said warmly, ignoring the grumpy half of Danny’s thanks—he was pretty certain it was for show. “See you guys in the morning.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Kono rolled into the office the next morning, she wasn’t surprised to see Chin already working away at the smart table. From the looks of it, he’d already been at it a while. Kono glanced around the rest of the office, but there was no sign of Steve or Danny. She tossed off a casual ‘hiya’ on her way to drop her gear bag in her office. The greeting went unanswered as Chin frowned lightly at whatever he was studying on the screen. Kono let him be while she headed to the locker room to rinse the saltwater from her hair.

Chin was still at it when she returned a few minutes later; his hands dancing across the table as he summoned and dismissed information with graceful motions. Kono paused in the doorway to watch him. She recognized some of the distinctive gestures from her own, somewhat limited, magical training. Kono had never devoted herself to magic the way Chin had—there was too much life to be had for Kono to sit in quiet contemplation—but she knew what it had cost him when the family had turned their backs. She ached for his loss. 

Kono stepped up beside Chin and leaned on his shoulder, trying to decipher what had him so absorbed. Crime scene photos flickered by under his fingertips. From the dates and different signatures, she recognized at least four different cases.

“What’s all this?” She asked, “Did you find a connection to another case?”

Chin nodded and flicked a glance around the office before he answered. “I think so. Something Danny said yesterday got me thinking.” He pulled up a picture of a small red bundle of cloth and expanded it. Kono could see the sigils embroidered into the fabric. “This is the hex bag that took out the protective wards at John McGarrett’s house.”

Kono felt herself go very, very still. “Does the boss know you’re looking into this?”

“No.” Chin shook his head and looked unhappy. “I don’t want to say anything until I have something solid. The same style of hex bag turned up at three other scenes before John was killed; but nothing since.” He pulled up photographs from the other cases; it was easy to see from the small, delicate stitches that all four bags had been made by the same hand. 

“Well that makes sense. Danny shot the mechanic who made it, right?”

Chin nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But according to Danny, Maile Watne’s house had the same lifeless feeling that John’s house did. The wards weren’t just broken, they were dead.”

Kono considered. “Doran could have sold the bags to someone before his death.”

“I thought of that,” Chin said, shrugging. He brought up a new picture—one of the hex bags on a lab tray, with the stitching sliced open and the contents arranged neatly for documentation. “Some of these ingredients have a fairly short shelf life; there’s no way they’d still be potent six months later.”

“So somebody has his recipe?” 

“Or he was never the mechanic in the first place.” Chin brushed that picture aside for a close up of the embroidered design. The stitches were tiny and meticulous, obviously the work of someone both talented and experienced in the art. “I’ve been going through Doran’s list of known associates, but half of them are locked up—and even if they weren’t—none of them have ever shown this level of skill. Up until about two and a half years ago, Doran hadn’t either.”

“Huh.” It was Kono’s turn to scowl at the table.

The door to the office opened and they both looked up guiltily. Chin cleared the screen with a smooth flick of his wrist.

“That didn’t look suspicious,” Danny said wryly as he walked in. “So who are we hiding what from?”

“Where’s Steve?” Chin asked.

“Got called to the principal’s office,” Danny answered in a tone that implied Steve deserved his fate. He stepped up to the table between them and nodded toward the empty background. “So? Are you going to share with the rest of the class?”

“I was just looking at the hex bags that Fred Doran was selling,” Chin admitted.

“Ah.” Kono could see the tumblers in Danny’s head re-orientating from work to Steve. Not that there seemed to be much separation between the two. “Got it. And—?”

“If it was the same design,” Chin wasn’t happy with his conclusion, “it has to be fresh. Someone has to be making them again. But I can’t find anyone connected to Doran who has the know-how.”

“Did you look into the girlfriend—?” Danny snapped his fingers, trying dredge up the name. “Turner, something. She’s a witch, on parole for peddling fake cures to cancer patients.”

Kono reopened the file on Doran and started scrolling through the list of associates. “Jaycee Turner?” 

Danny snapped again. “The one and only. Thank god.” He chuckled. “Before you talk to her, do yourself a favor and swing by Queen’s for a rabies shot.” At Kono’s blank look, he mouthed, “She’s a biter” and clicked his teeth together. “Right,” he clapped the both of them on the shoulder, “you guys have fun with that. I’ll, uh, break the news to Steve.”

  
  


The address that Turner’s parole officer gave Chin and Kono had aspirations to be a hovel. The bungalow had a dispirited lean to its clapboard walls; fortunately, the garden had given way to a jungle that seemed equal to the task of keeping the house upright. 

As Kono surveyed the house, she felt the comfortable familiar warmth of Chin’s protective spell settle over her skin. She grinned over at him. “I do have my shield, you know,” she chided gently, tapping a finger against the badge on her hip. Each police and task force badge had layers of protective spells forged into the very metal, but Chin had supplemented them with his own additions for the three members of Five-0 who didn’t unweave magic just by existing (Danny’s curse had so far been more than a match for any spells tossed in his direction).

“Humor me,” Chin said, seriously. “The wards at Watne’s house were destroyed like nothing I’ve ever seen. Who knows what other tricks a mechanic that strong can cook up?”

“Right.” Kono gave him a bright smile. “In that case,” she said, gesturing to the door with a flourish, “you can knock.”

Chin shook his head, but his expression was fond. 

They approached the door, gingerly crossing the wooden porch that sagged beneath their weight. Kono peered through the front window, straining to see past the reflected daylight into the still interior. The living room appeared to have been decorated in ‘early opium den.’ Furniture had been eschewed in favor of piles of pillows on the floor and what appeared to be a large dog bed up against one wall. An old television flickered atop a milk crate in the corner.

Chin knocked brusquely. 

There was a rustle of movement inside and a dark shadow crossed the back of the room, moving quickly toward the rear of the house. 

“She’s running,” Kono announced, already turning to sprint around the house after their fleeing suspect. At least that was her intention. The air around Kono had solidified like thick silt. She threw herself against the restraint, her efforts gaining her a sluggish step. 

“Hold on,” Chin said, forcing his still raised hand down toward the leather and metal cuff around his other wrist. His fingers curled over one of the silver studs and a second later the stench of electrical smoke stung Kono’s nose. The bead turned a deeply tarnished black and abruptly Kono’s limbs were back under her control.

“Thanks,” she chirped, flinging herself off the porch and dashing through the unkempt garden. The low chain-link fence barely broke her stride. The neglected back yard held waist-high grass and it was insultingly easy to trace the path that Turner had taken through the yard and over another low fence into the back neighbor’s yard. Kono burst onto the street and cast her gaze from side to side, seeking her prey.

Turner—and Kono finally caught enough of a glimpse to identify her positively—was rounding the corner at the end of the block, running flat out. Kono gave chase with predatory glee, enjoying the pounding of pavement as it flew beneath her feet. The street at the end of the block was a busy thoroughfare; the heavy flow of cars had kept Turner pinned to Kono’s side of the street and slowed her flight. Kono was less than a block back and gaining quickly.

A familiar red and white blur streaked by, passing both Kono and Turner. Chin slammed the car to a stop at the far end of the block, cutting off Turner’s escape route. Sensing them closing in, Turner darted a frantic look between the cousins and then plunged straight out into traffic. 

Kono followed. An SUV passed only inches behind her, its horn and brakes screaming. Kono ignored the commotion. She could see Turner’s goal now—a beach popular with families. It would be a terrible place for a magical shootout. She couldn’t afford to give Turner enough breathing room to start thinking offensively.

Long, loping strides propelled Kono clear of the street. Turner turned, now just a few yards away, and began digging frantically through the brightly colored beach bag over her shoulder. Kono gathered her will and cast one of the only off-the-cuff spells she had mastered. She threw the spell toward the ground in front of her and leapt—a tight column of air formed beneath her and launched Kono forward.

Her shoulder caught Turner in the midsection and lifted Turner clean off her feet. The pair of them slammed into the grass with a bone-rattling thud, tumbling to a stop a few feet apart. Braced for the rough landing, Kono recovered quickly and rolled back onto her feet. She pounced on Turner and cuffed her quickly.

By the time Kono had searched Turner’s pockets and removed the magical items, Chin was there to help haul the weakly struggling woman upright.

  


* * *

  


Danny met Steve in the parking lot of the palace, pulling open the passenger door before Steve had a chance to climb out. “How’s the governor?” he asked as he dropped into the seat.

“She’s just fine, Daniel,” Steve said, starting the Camaro again. “Really pleased that a senior citizen on her island was torn apart by a demon and we haven’t caught the witch responsible yet.” 

“That good, huh?” Danny blithely ignored Steve’s kicked puppy expression. “Come on, a ride out to Halawa should cheer you up.”

“Halawa?”

“Oh please, don’t play dumb with me,” Danny commanded. “Enough already! You’ve been making me crazy.”

“I’m making you crazy? How?” The wounded look was gone and Steve had some snap back in his eyes. 

Danny scoffed to hide his satisfaction at the spark in Steve’s retort. “Oh trust me, buddy. You do not want a list. It is itemized and there are bullet points. However, it has not escaped my notice that you’re getting regular accountings of Jovan Etienne’s daily agenda from Halawa’s warden. Clearly you want to have a conversation with Etienne. So, let’s go have a conversation with him. It’s not like we don’t know where to find him.”

“What do you think he’s going to tell us?” Steve argued, though he guided the car in the direction Danny wanted.

“I don’t know.” Danny shrugged. “If I knew what he was going to tell us, we wouldn’t have to go talk to him, now would we?”

“You think you’re pretty clever.”

“Clever enough. Anyway, I heard back from Professor Descoteaux. Bad news, he thinks the caster is probably self-taught, from a book that’s at least a hundred and seventy-five years old. So, it could be literally anyone who’s ever frequented a used bookshop with a halfway decent magic section.”

“So we’ve still got nothing?”

“We have slightly less nothing than before. What he was able to give me was the name of the demon that was summoned—Utor the Devourer. As that charming epithet suggests, Utor is nasty dude. Doesn’t like water though, so he can’t be all bad.”

“Demon after your own heart.”

“Technically he’s a belpheg, one of the lesser orders of demons. The classics should work—iron and salt. He’s also very prone to turning on the witches that summon him, which is how he ended up on the Unspeakable list — he’s difficult to control and the French authorities got tired of cleaning up pieces of witches that tried, so they banned him around 1840. If he’s called up again, our best plan is to break the witch’s concentration. Failing that, make like Dorothy and toss a bucket of saltwater.”

“Really? That seems anti-climactic.”

Danny shrugged. “I don’t make the rules, not that you’d follow them if I did.”

  
  


The interview room at Halawa was dingy and depressing — unpainted cinderblock and only a small amount of light from the single barred window. The Danny could almost feel the weight of despair that clung to the walls like black mold, making him feel heavy and dispirited.

Danny slouched in the corner and watched his partner’s agitated pacing with concern. He wasn’t sure how Steve was going to handle Etienne, so Danny held himself in readiness and prayed everyone would keep their cool.

A guard rapped against the door. Steve stopped midstride and pivoted to face the opening. Danny recognized the posture as Steve’s ‘feelings are for civilians’ stance and sighed. He straightened up a bit himself – just in case.

Kosuke Ueno, the guard, jerked a nod of greeting toward each of them as he shepherded his charge inside. Halawa had apparently beaten the fight out of Etienne. He shuffled into the room with head bowed and shoulders bent, allowing Ueno to guide him into the chair with vacuous complacency.

Steve stood stock still, watching Etienne intently. Just as Danny feared he might have to intervene, Steve spoke. His voice was hard; sharp in a way that Danny hadn’t heard since they had met. 

“Who the hell are you?” he snapped, pinning Etienne with a glare that crackled. “Because you’re sure as hell not Jovan Etienne.”

Danny realized he was gaping at Steve and pulled his cop-face back into position with some effort. Ueno looked similarly confused. Etienne was oblivious.

“Steve?” Danny frowned at the prisoner, trying to see what Steve did.

“That’s not Etienne,” Steve stated.

“How?” Danny asked, not doubting, but asking Steve to build his case. “Halawa’s warded against magic to prevent this sort of thing.” Danny gathered a small amount of will experimentally and was surprised to discover that he could. He released the magic gently, allowing it to dissipate without bumping against his binding; he did not want to be at the epicenter if his curse started feeding off the prison’s wardings.

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted, “but you shot Etienne in the left leg, shattering his tibia. That man,” he jabbed a finger toward the inmate, “has never broken his leg, let alone in the last six months.”

“Okay,” Danny said, convinced. To Ueno, he said, “Get the warden down here. You’ve had an escape.”

The guard got on his radio and relayed the request in a carefully worded conversation aimed at conveying urgency without accepting responsibility.

“What’s your name?” Steve demanded of the prisoner.

The prisoner stared off into middlespace, giving no indication that he’d heard any of the conversation.

Danny’s open palm slammed hard against the metal table, the sound shockingly loud against the hard surfaces of the room. “Your name!” he snarled.

Okay, that was creepy. There weren’t even lights on in the vacant house that was not-Etienne’s face.

Ueno, having convinced his duty officer that the warden really should respond personally, said, “He got jumped in the laundry a few weeks ago. Ever since, the elevator stops a few floors short.”

“That’s probably when Etienne made the switch,” Steve reasoned, a thousand percent calmer than Danny would be if he were in Steve’s place. Danny did not trust that calm.

“I’d like to search the prisoner,” Danny told Ueno. “This kind of spell requires an anchor, something that would have to be on him constantly.”

“Inmate,” Ueno addressed not-Etienne, “stand up and turn out your pockets.”

Not-Etienne complied with the same malleable compliance that had marked his every move. It was deeply disturbing, and Danny hoped for the poor bastard’s sake that the spell was keyed into the prison guards’ authority and not just anyone who came along. 

Not-Etienne’s pockets yielded only lint and he wore no jewelry. Ueno had him unbutton the jumpsuit to the waist and pulled the sleeves down his arms, patting the empty fabric for concealed objects as he did. Just along the neckline of the white tank beneath the jumpsuit the curved edge of a large tattoo could be seen. 

Danny gently pulled the fabric aside and saw that spells had been inked into the man’s chest. Danny counted four separate components contained within a wide ring of glyphs. The lines were crisp and intricate, clearly not the work of a prison tattoo rig. The symbols of the outer ring were nauseatingly familiar.

He yanked his hand back like his fingers had been scalded. 

“What is it?” Steve asked. 

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Danny put as much distance between himself and the sinuous markings. He didn’t even have to ask Steve to join him for a hushed conference in the corner, his partner was there instantly, concern softening his eyes. 

“What’s the matter?” Steve prompted quietly.

Danny worried at his lip. “The tattoo.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s… uh, I know it.” Danny cleared his throat. He kept his voice low, all too aware of Ueno’s interest. “Rachel taught it to me. It’s part of the Caskuri forming spell.” His hands fidgeted aimlessly in the suddenly stifling room. “I… uh… It’s the same spell I bastardized when I locked my magic away. It’s where I get the invulnerability to magic.”

“So you’re saying he’s…” Steve snapped his attention back to the prisoner, eyes going momentarily unfocused as he tried to cast his second sight and then huffing in irritation when he realized the prison’s wards had cut off that power.

“No,” Danny shook his head violently, annoyed at how much fear he felt at the thought of a Caskuri on the same island as his little girl. Hawaii was supposed to be a haven; Danny didn’t have a Plan B if it wasn’t. Hell, Hawaii was more like Plan M as it was. 

He continued, “If he were, the etchings would be on his bones and the disguise spell wouldn’t work. What I’m saying is Etienne didn’t do this, not alone. Etienne doesn’t have the skill, and if he had, the spell couldn’t have been cast inside Halawa—the wards are too strong. There has to be a priest here on the island helping him—and not one of those kooks standing around on corners yelling about magic mocking the Veralumio. This took training and a lot more juice than your average Lighter can swing.” 

“Okay,” Steve said in a low, soothing tone, which made Danny wonder just what Steve could see in his face. He noticed Steve’s hand twitching upward, as if he had wanted to touch Danny, but thought better of it. Steve continued, “We’ll track that down. Right now, though, we need to focus.”

Fuck. When had McGarrett become the reasonable one? Probably about the time Danny’s brain had flooded with images of Gracie being collared and twisted into a weapon by zealots. The thought was enough to pull Danny’s racing thoughts back into order. He drew himself upright and forced his shoulders to drop with a noisy exhale. Funny, he’d entered the room expecting to take care of Steve, not the other way around.

“You good?” Steve asked.

Danny nodded and started to answer verbally when the door swung inward forcefully, cutting him off. 

Halawa’s warden was a rawboned whippet of a man. The scowl lines on his face were carved deep by habit. “What’s this about an escape?” he demanded.

“Warden,” Steve greeted. He stepped forward to shake the man’s hand, putting himself between Danny and the rest of the room’s occupants. Danny half listened as Steve steamrolled the warden and started issuing commands in the man’s own facility.

Steve recapped the evidence they’d observed for the warden and then directed, “You need to transfer him to the thaumocology department at Queen’s Medical. Post a guard. Nobody gets into the room except for verified medical personnel on his case and Five-0. All right? I’m making you personally responsible for this man’s safety.”

“I can’t just—“ the man sputtered.

“Or we can have a conversation with the governor about how you not only let a terrorist escape, but let him use magic to do so.”

The scowl deepened, but the man muttered resentfully, “I’ll see to it, Commander.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chin and Kono deposited Turner in the rendition room to stew an hour before they started the questioning. And – Chin thought privately – to give Kono some time to cool off before putting the two of them back in a confined space; the drive back to HQ had taxed even Chin’s considerable patience.

The rest of the office was empty when Chin settled in at his desk—Kono was logging Turner’s possessions into the evidence room and Steve and Danny hadn’t returned from Halawa yet. The quiet was an unexpected boon—Chin loved his teammates fiercely, but between the three of them, they sometimes made him feel as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.

Without conscious effort, Chin found that the photocopied pages of Nalani’s grimoire were in his hands. He smoothed his thumb along the thick edge of the document, letting the paper whisper across the ridges and whorls of his print. He’d gone through the pages more times than was probably healthy; certainly more times than was necessary for the investigation. He’d also added several pages of his own handwritten notes to the stack. It was the most academically pure magic he’d even glanced at since everything had gone to hell and it was getting harder to pretend that his interest in the spells was confined to the case.

Three years ago, after he’d been accused of corruption, his own spell book had been destroyed in a ritual which had formally severed the bonds of clan and coven. It had broken his heart, and almost broken his spirit.

In the aftermath of the ritual, he’d copied out as many spells as he could remember and then set about rebuilding his grimoire from other sources. But it hadn’t been the same as weaving the spells that his family had refined over centuries—he missed that feeling of home; that feeling of peace and belonging.

There were subtle differences between his family’s spells and the ones in Nalani’s book—they had been shaped by unfamiliar personalities—but they carried the same sense of history that Chin found himself aching for. He wasn’t so far gone that he would actually use the spells. That was a taboo.

He had to admit, though that having them at his fingertips made him feel better.

The sound of the door alerted him to Kono’s approach. He tossed the document onto his desk where it spun to a crooked stop on the corner. By the time Kono rapped on the doorframe as she let herself in, Chin was pretending to be deeply absorbed in his email.

She leaned against his desk, elegant fingers tracing the Kaneko crest on the first page. Absently, she straightened the document and then frowned and set it askew once more. “Do you miss it?” She asked.

And because Chin could never lie to Kono, he nodded. “Like I’d miss a limb.”

Her eyes were soft and sad and threatened to break Chin in a way that everything else had failed to.

“We should go see if Turner’s had time to think about her life choices,” he said, on his feet and halfway out the door before Kono could ask a follow up question.

Turner, as it turned out, had spent the time contemplating where her life had gone off the rails. She seemed to have arrived at the conclusion that there was a correlation between the recent troubles in her life and Five-0’s entry into it.

“Jaycee,” Chin started in a genial tone, “your parole officer’s very disappointed in you. Running from the police? That never looks good.”

Turner scowled, managing a fairly impressive disaffected slouch for someone handcuffed to her seat.

Kono, who had settled in against the wall behind Turner for a round of good cop/you made me run cop, piped up with, “I dunno, cuz—if I had a bag full of six-hour soulmate, I’d probably leg it too.”

“Magical roofies,” Chin said with an air of profound disappointment. “That’s a step down for you, isn’t it?”

“Whoa.” Turner’s head snapped up. “Okay, I will admit that my charms have, shall we say, recreational uses; but they won’t make anybody do shit that they weren’t going to already do. They just enhance a good time.”

“The state of Hawaii feels differently,” Kono pointed out. “Twenty-three charms from the banned list bumps you up to promoting—that’s a Class A Felony, Jaycee. With your priors, it’s a mandatory thirteen-year minimum sentence.”

“Lucky for you,” Chin cut in smoothly, “we’re not interested in your extracurricular activities today. You answer some questions, help us out a little and we’re willing to let you sort out the possession charges with your P.O.” He pulled up the photograph of the hex bag from John McGarrett’s murder. He held the tablet in front of her face. “See this bag? We know that Doran sold it to a man named Victor Hesse, who used it during the murder of a retired detective.”

Turner shrugged, but Chin could see the tension behind her affected aloofness, the threat of a mandatory sentence had obviously rattled her. “What’s that got to do with me? Fred died six months ago.”

“You’re right,” Chin agreed, “Doran is definitely dead, so maybe you can explain why a hex bag identical to this one turned up at a murder scene two days ago?”

“That asshole,” Turner blurted. “I told him to take—“ She bit back the rest of the statement, but the damage was done.

“Who?” Chin pressed.

“I want a lawyer,” she said; the defiant set of her mouth trembled a bit around the edges.

“You should do that,” Kono said, moving forward so she was crowding into Turner’s space from behind. “Talking to a lawyer is smart—because if you reject this offer—we’re going to prove that you made those hexes, not Doran. Once we do, you’ll be arrested for aiding and abetting an act of terrorism.”

“We aren’t interested in you,” Chin said, offering her a lifeline. “We want the witch who bought the hex bag from you. Help us find him and you can have the rest of this conversation with your P.O.”

She scowled down at her feet. Chin settled back to wait, confident that self-interest would sway her decision.

Eventually, she heaved a sigh. “Okay, you’re right—Fred didn’t know his hexes from his jinxes. I made the bags, he handled sales. And it worked for us, you know? Whenever I meet with a client, they want to dicker over price, but nobody wanted to haggle with Fred. I miss that asshole.”

She continued, “I never met Hesse, but a couple of weeks ago this guy show up out of the blue looking to buy a house-killer hex. I told him he had the wrong girl. So then he got all intense and said he knew that Fred wasn’t the mechanic.”

“He threatened you?” Chin asked.

“Not in so many words, but I could read between the lines. I really didn’t want to end up shark bait.”

“So you sold him the hex bag?” Kono prompted.

“Yeah. I mean, I had to make it—I don’t keep them on hand, they’re not very shelf-stable and the ingredients are expensive—so it took me a couple days.”

Chin and Kono took turns teasing out the details of her interactions with the witch, but scared and resentful did not make for a thorough recollection. She’d hesitantly described a tall man with dark—or possibly light— wavy hair, skinny, with an accent that she’d narrowed down to “European, no Russian. Maybe.” It was frustratingly vague, bordering on useless.

The best lead came near the end of the interview, when Kono asked, “Was there anything else that stood out about him?”

Turner’s eyes lit up with sparked memory. “When he picked up the hex, he asked if I could get my hands on some pix. It’s not really my scene, but I gave him the names of a couple of dealers who might be slinging sparkle.”

Chin found that curious. Pix—also known on the street as pixie dust, sparkle, glitterbomb, and unicorn farts—was a psychotropic compound that had recently started crossing over from the magical community into the mundane drug using population on Oahu. It was said to enhance magical strength among practitioners and allow the non-magical to perceive the supranatural world, even activate latent magical abilities if the rumors were to be believed. It also left a fair number of users—magical and mundane alike—disconnected from reality for periods of time that grew in duration with repeated usage.

He wondered if the witch they sought required pharmacological help to boost his spells, or if he were an addict. Either way, it was a decent place to start digging.

 

* * *

 

For the next week, Five-0 and HPD waged a quietly ruthless campaign against anyone even rumored to sell pixie dust. Vice—once they’d been convinced that no one was looking to show them up—was able to supple intelligence on the supply chain that had sprung up to answer the sudden appetite.

While Danny was continuing to research the demon Utor, Steve summoned all the diplomatic skills he could muster and did his best to coordinate with HPD, assigning detectives to follow up leads and informants, and patrol units to cover localities known to harbor drug dealers, both mundane and magical.

Those localities suddenly became deserted as officers elected to take leisurely coffee breaks on the corners and in the parks frequented by dealers and their customers. Word was out that the suffocating police presence would ease up if any of the dealers coughed up Jovan Etienne.

In the meantime, Five-0 was working their way through a list of likely dealers. The current focus of their efforts, Aaron Sinclair, was a newcomer from the mainland who’d wasted no time acquainting himself with U.H.’s social scene. The team had tailed him through clubs and frat parties for the better part of two days, until Steve’s brain pulsed with the deep wub-wub of what passed for music.

Fortunately for Steve’s aching head, Sinclair’s agenda for the morning included a break from the party scene. He backed the Camaro into a sheltered corner of an out-of-the-way parking lot behind the agricultural science building. From their vantage point he could see the picnic table on the small patch of lawn where Echo, Danny’s confidential informant, had arranged to meet Sinclair for a drug-buy. Danny sat in the passenger seat and flipped through the case file.

“Pixie dust,” Danny snorted. “Who names this shit?”

“Allegedly it makes you see pixies,” Steve said, without looking away from where the C.I. paced nervously. “Echo’s gonna blow it if he doesn’t calm down.”

“He’s always that twitchy. It’d be suspicious if he was chill,” Danny shrugged. “Clearly, whoever’s cooking this stuff, has never actually met a pixie because if they had, they would not want to see one ever again. They are nasty little biting insects with the ability to make very sharp tools.”

“You don’t like pixies?”

“What’s to like? My folks had an infestation of them in their attic once. It took us six weeks to convince them to relocate—and honestly, we’d have been better off if we’d just burned down the house and moved.”

Steve chuckled. “I’ve never met a pixie. Had a problem with a domovoi once, in a country I never visited.”

“What’d you do? Drink its milk?”

“Ate its porridge.”

Danny burst out laughing.

Steve looked abashed. “I didn’t know. Cost me half my rations for the rest of the mission to get it to stop pinching me every time I nodded off.”

Still laughing, Danny nodded toward the lawn. “Heads up, here comes Sinclair.”

“Easy, Echo,” Steve coached, even though the C.I. couldn’t hear him.

The hand-off occurred with no more than the usual level of drug-buy-related nerves. Echo flashed a shaka as he shuffled past the Camaro, en route to the pre-arranged meeting place with exaggerated nonchalance.

Danny shook his head. “Idiot.”

“He’s your C.I.,” Steve pointed out as Danny climbed out of the car to trail after Echo. Steve stayed put, watching as Sinclair sprawled out on top of a picnic table and began munching on a burrito he pulled from his backpack.

Danny returned a few minutes later with a small plastic bindle of purple-green iridescent powder sealed inside of an evidence bag. He secured the bag inside the trunk and knocked on the driver side window. “Shall we interrupt his lunch?”

Sinclair didn’t bother to look up as they approached. He had finished his late breakfast and now hunched industriously over a paper bag in his lap. Steve opted for the direct approach, while Danny circled wide to flank him on the other side of the table.

“Aaron Sinclair,” Steve announced their presence, “Five-0, we’d like to –“

Sinclair rolled backward off the table, landing on his feet on the far side. He spun and launched into a run in a single frenetic burst while trying to keep an eye on Steve.

He collided hard with Danny, the paper bag crushed between them as they sprawled on the grass. Sinclair sprang back to his feet and sprinted away, leaving Danny prone on the ground.

Steve leaped over the picnic table and ran flat out after Sinclair, who had gained an unexpected lead—for someone who partied as hard as Sinclair did, he was surprisingly fast.

They tore across the yard, Steve narrowing the distance between them steadily. At the edge of the building Sinclair drew up, trying to make the turn. Steve crashed into him, shoving him over the low hedge that lined the walkway.

Steve seized Sinclair by the collar and seat of his pants and hauled him back out of the shrubbery. He plunked the dealer face down on the sidewalk, securing his wrists like a calf-roper going for record time, then hauled the uncooperative prisoner to his feet—grinning up at Danny expectantly.

Danny was not there.

“What the fuck, man?” Sinclair tried to jerk his arm free.

“Shut up,” Steve ordered, dragging him back the way he’d come. He scanned the area for his partner, but couldn’t see Danny anywhere. Then he realized that Sinclair’s backpack was gone from the picnic table. Shit. Had Sinclair had a partner that they’d missed?

“Danny,” Steve yelled.

There was an answering shout from behind the Camaro. As Steve rounded the body of the car he saw that the trunk was open and Danny was sitting against the bumper, hunched over as he used a bottle of water to rinse his eyes. Purple and green iridescent streaks covered his face and chest; his clean-up efforts had spread the mess to his hands and arms.

Steve’s relief gave way to amusement as he took in his partner’s colorful state, but was in turn replaced by dismay when Danny coughed, spitting the purple and green powder onto the ground. His partner was coated in the pix.

He tried to examine Danny and hang on to Sinclair but neither one seemed inclined to cooperate. “Danny. Danny, look at me. Okay, we gotta get you to the hospital.”

Danny blinked up at him, eyes red and watery. “No, Steve, its fine,” he rasped.

Steve forced Sinclair down onto the curb with a growl that promised a world of pain should the man even think about moving. He focused on Danny, lifting his chin to evaluate his pupils. “It’s not fine. How much of that crap did you inhale?”

“Steve!” Danny batted Steve’s hands away. “Listen to me—It. Is. Oh. Kay.”

“What do you mean?”

Danny looked at the ground and mumbled.

“What?” Steve asked.

He mumbled again.

“Seriously, Danny, you’re freaking me out.”

Danny grabbed an evidence bag from the trunk at shoved it at Steve. He couldn’t read the label. “It’s glitter, okay? It’s edible cake glitter. I am not going to the hospital to be treated for exposure to a confection.”

Steve couldn’t help laughing at Danny’s embarrassment. “Cake glitter?”

“Yes, Steven. Cake glitter.” Danny glared at him when he laughed harder. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. Asshole.”

“Right. Sorry.” Steve took the water bottle and tipped Danny’s head back in his other hand. He let the water flow gently over Danny’s eyes, checking to make sure all the glitter was washed out.

When he was finished, water and glitter clung to Danny’s lashes; the iridescent sparkle caught the blue of his eyes. Mesmerized, Steve swiped his thumb beneath Danny’s eye, smearing the streaked color into his skin.

“I think I’ll be okay,” Danny said, clearing his throat, but not making a move to pull away.

“Right. Right,” Steve repeated. He let his hand drop and looked away, embarrassed. “Book him, Danno.”

“Really?” Danny groaned. “Am I not having a rotten enough day?”

 

* * *

 

There was a moment of gaining as he slid between one realm and the next—gaining time and dimension; gaining form. Utor stretched his claws and enjoyed feeling the flex of powerful limbs. The insect who invoked his name had expected a monster and so had poured Utor into a vessel that fulfilled expectation.

He was unsurprised to find that he had been called forth a second time in this warm and humid place – no more than a slow blink had passed for Utor since the first all-too-brief summoning – the magic that enslaved him was seductive and corrosive; humans seemed incapable of resisting it once they tasted it.

His vessel reared up to its full towering height and snarled down at the insect that had the temerity to name Utor the Devourer. The human was not an impressive specimen, even by the pathetic standards of the species. It was pallid and reedy, and so friable of mind that - were he unshackled - Utor could snap its sanity with a passing thought. He could feel it trying to exert control over him, but the witch’s commands produced no more than a faint pricking buzz beneath his skin. This impudent worm had thought to shackle Utor to its will? Standards had certainly fallen since his name had last been invoked.

Utor tested his strength against the circle that confined him. The spell was haphazard; held together with a surfeit of raw energy that compensated for the feeble structure. His power, as always, was diminished in physical manifestation and further inhibited by the heavy-handed spellwork but, given time, he could tear apart the restricting spells and express his displeasure with the insect.

And yet, a nameless yearning stayed his revenge for the slight. It had been an age since his name had drawn Utor forth into the pleasures of the physical realm. How long would he wait to be called again?

The circle wobbled. Utor let his power drop. “Master,” he rumbled in the multitudinous voice that always seemed to go over well with amateurs.

The insect was speaking. Its accent was unintelligible; the commands strung together without poetry or comprehension. Utor gave a low growl that rumbled through the thick air. What had become of magic in his absence? In times past he had conferred with witches of such power that it rivaled his own—had advised the kings of empires that spanned continent but, now he was reduced to listening to the babble of an infant. Utor had yet to be even offered tea.

The witch scuttled forward, a wooden carving cradled in both arms. It thrust the figure between the two outer rings of the binding circle and retreated hastily. The outermost circle flared with power.

Utor picked the carving up between two claws and held it up for study. Aesthetically, it was a disaster. The cuts were rough and the forms fought each other. He sniffed at the magic that infused it and touched his tongue to it and spat at the rancid, sweet taste. The spell was warped and inelegant and tasted of the little messengers’ deaths. The spell would not hold, but oh, how it would burn.

The witch watched him with glittering malicious eyes. Once it felt that Utor had been granted sufficient time to scrutinize the fetish, it raised both hands towards him and shouted a command in execrable Latin—cementing Utor’s low opinion of its skills. Utor huffed in annoyance. Spells focused and shaped the manifestation of a practitioner’s will; words mattered less than the intent, but amateurs seemed addicted to the drama of archaic languages. (In Nero’s age, Phoenician had been the favored affectation. Rather than waste time attempting to interpret the mangled syllables, Utor extended his power and plucked the thought directly from the insect’s head.

Oh.

_Oh._

He ran freshly appraising eyes over the insect. What the little worm lacked in refinement and manners, it more than made up for malicious ingenuity. _This could be delightful._

He noted, with equal glee, that the fool had left gaping loopholes in its commands. Now he could only hope there was some place on the island that brewed a decent pot of tea. And possibly some cake.

It had been an age since he had tasted petits fours.

 

* * *

 

“Possession with intent to distribute an imitation controlled substance,” Danny read aloud, checking off the indicated charge on the screen with a flourish. “Resisting arrest, assault against a law enforcement officer – second degree.” Another check. “What do you think Steve, criminal property damage … fourth degree? No, three. Definitely three.” He flicked a hand down the front of his tie, scattering glitter everywhere. “It’s going to cost a fortune to get the glitter out of my clothes, out of my car, out of my holster, out of my gun. Ooh. Obstructing government operations – haven’t used that one in a while.”

Danny was ten minutes into a diatribe that he figured he could easily stretch another eight or so until a corrections deputy took Sinclair off their hands. He continued his enumeration of possible charges while Steve deposited all his weapons into the trunk before they entered the jail. Danny knew from experience that it would take a while and harbored suspicions about just how thorough a job his partner did.

Finally, Steve slammed the trunk closed and circled around to the rear door. Sinclair — who by now had the meek look of a whipped pup, and enough common sense to stay mute — let himself be drawn from the vehicle. Danny rang the doorbell and waited for the monitoring deputy to unlock the interior sally port door. Steve escorted Sinclair through, gripping him firmly by the bicep.

Danny trailed along behind, still talking. He’d burned through most of his heat on the topic on the drive over, but kept picking at it because otherwise he’d have to stop and think about the sidelong glances that Steve kept sneaking when he thought Danny wasn’t watching. Danny wasn’t sure he was ready to think about those glances yet.

He looked around for a seat in the booking area to deposit Sinclair in. To his surprise, there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. In fact, there were already a number of people lined up along the wall, waiting for a seat. Speaking was normally actively discouraged in the processing area, but every single person present was running their mouth at a volume that rivaled the average Williams Family get-together.

Duke walked by with a handcuffed woman in her mid-thirties. She was wearing business attire and sobbing heavily.

“And I d-didn’t tell my sis-ter her fiancé was ch-ea-ea-ting until a-a-after the wedding; because I’d already pa-aid the deposits,” she wailed.

“That’s not actually a crime,” Duke said mildly. “It’s not very nice, but not a crime.”

The woman sniffled and looked up at him. “I buy cocaine when my boss is entertaining clients,” she offered.

“Now that we can help you with,” Duke replied. He seemed unsurprised by her spontaneous confession. Danny, however, gaped at the entire exchange.

She nodded and gave Duke a watery smile. Duke guided her to a place in line on the wall and patted her arm comfortingly. “You just wait right here and someone will be along shortly.”

A harried corrections deputy stomped across the booking area, attempting to avoid eye contact with anyone. Danny whistled between his teeth.

The officer looked up and realized his mistake at once. His shoulders slumped. “What’ve you got?”

Danny handed over the paper custody sheet and the small bag of Sinclair’s property that wasn’t headed to evidence. “Aaron Sinclair. Imitation dope, among other charges.”

The officer scanned the sheet and grunted. He glanced up and did a double take at Danny’s glitter-bombed visage. The start of a smirk quirked at the corner of his mouth.

Steve interrupted smoothly. “What is all this?” he asked, gesturing around the room

“Hell if I know,” the officer answered. “Just work here. Only took the job so my moms would stop hassling me. Place has been a madhouse all morning.” He took charge of Sinclair without further comment and hustled him to a spot on the wall behind the crying woman.

“Ooo-kay.” Steve blinked at the random overshare.

Danny waved Duke over to them. The sergeant joined them, grinning broadly at Danny’s added sparkle.

“Hey, Duke,” Steve greeted. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Who knows. We’ve been swamped for the past hour. We’ve had disturbances, domestics… Uh, spontaneous confessions of everything from infidelity, to embezzlement, to even a couple cold homicides.”

“That’s weird,” Danny said, watching the chaos around them suspiciously.

“It’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. And I have seen some things.” He looked at Steve and an odd look crossed his face. “I was there when the stripper took your father’s night stick hostage and demanded—“

Danny interrupted before either of them had to live with the knowledge of what Steve’s father paid in forfeit to get his equipment back. “Okay. Time to go. Duke, good luck.”

“That was weird,” he repeated once they were safely outside.

“Yeah,” Steve said distractedly. “I could have done without that. Do you want malasadas? I want malasadas.” He smiled at Danny—an odd little smile that didn’t belong in the catalog of Steve’s expressions that Danny had archived. Not that Danny was documenting Steve’s smiles. Much.

He cocked his head at his partner and asked, “Really? I offered you one Monday and you acted like I was trying to poison you.”

Steve looked confused. “It’s not that I didn’t want one, but I can’t just have malasadas any time I want one, Danny.”

Danny was pretty sure they weren’t talking about malasadas. “Steve, are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Just hungry apparently. We should get lunch.”

“I need to go shower and change my clothes. I am not going back to the palace looking like Tinkerbell’s professional cousin. There are cameras there and Kono will be there, and that woman is vicious.” He slapped Steve on the back, secretly delighting in the subtle transfer of sparkles to his partner’s shirt. “Come on, I’ve got some left over lasagna I can heat up for you.”

“Lasagna sounds good,” Steve said, but the wistful tone in his voice made Danny positive that they were talking about more than food.


	5. Chapter 5

Life looked less irritating after a shower and food—though Danny was resigned to living with sparkles for the foreseeable future.

Steve had been in an odd mood throughout the meal, quiet and confessional by turns. Danny didn’t really mind. Months of exposure had acclimated him to Steve’s odd all _and_ nothing version of intimacy. He tripped over that thought. Maybe intimacy was not the word he wanted to connect with his partner at the moment. 

Kono came bounding out of her office to meet them when they came through the door, her cell phone conspicuously in hand. “Danny, are you okay?” she asked, eyes wide in what a less suspicious person would assume was concern.

“You heard about the glitter, didn’t you?”

She took in his freshly showered personage and pouted. “Danny, can’t I be concerned for a friend?”

“Ah-huh.” Danny crossed his arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Concerned with a camera in your hand?”

“To document,” she protested, “for the case.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “For the case,” he said, turning to Steve with an ‘are you buying this?’ look.

Steve was wearing that odd expression again, lips twitching into a faintly confused scowl. “I swear you have the bluest eyes,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at them.” Then he smiled—the new smile that set Danny’s teeth on edge.

Kono’s face lit up like it was Christmas. She fumbled for her phone. Danny made a grab for it before she could start recording anything that would require her immediate and irrevocable reassignment to Alaska. They scuffled for the phone. Danny, who had the advantage of multiple siblings, all taller than himself, came up with the phone and pushed Kono back.

He looked at Steve. The question ‘what the hell?’ died on his lips as he took in the glassy eyes and blissful smile. Okay, oddness at lunch was one thing, in the office it was something another. “Steve, are you feeling all right?”

The smile drained from Steve’s face. “Yeah.” He shook himself. “No. I don’t know why I said that,” Steve said, looking confused.

“Okay. Okay,” Danny said, thinking furiously. “I think whatever was going on at booking—I think you’re infected. Kono…”

“I took an extra twenty minutes at lunch,” she blurted and now Kono was wearing a version of Steve’s new, definitely not-improved smile. When the haze cleared after a moment, Kono squeaked and clapped both hands over her mouth.

The office door opened and Chin entered, staring in intently at something on his tablet. Steve started to open his mouth and Danny followed Kono’s lead, slapping his palm across his partner’s lips. 

“Chin! Truth spell at HPD. Kono and Steve are infected, probably via talking,” Danny snapped out a rapid sit-rep, dancing with Steve as the taller man tried to jerk free. “I need you to wait in the hallway for a minute, while these two take a time out.”

With more equanimity than Danny had ever possessed in his life, Chin backed out with no more than a puzzled frown. 

Steve was getting agitated. Once the door closed behind Chin, Danny finally pulled his hand away. “What? What?”

“I spilled a smoothie in the Camaro last week.” There went the hazy bliss again.

“Ungh.” Danny bit his lip and shook his fist at Steve. “I knew I smelled mango.” His expression softened as he really looked at Steve. He uncurled his fist and placed the open palm against Steve’s chest. “This is not good, babe. There’s too much in your head and I don’t want to get debriefed in a black site. Both of you, cell phones, now.” He snapped his fingers, impatient until they surrendered their mobiles. 

“I need you both to go unplug your office phones and bring them back out here; then lock yourselves inside.”

Steve drew in a breath and Danny wheeled on him. “Bup-bup-bup! State secrets, Steven! I will never forgive you if I end up in front of a Senate subcommittee explaining why I know classified information.” He all but shoved Steve toward his office.

On the threshold, Steve cocked his head at Danny. “Just what is it that you think I do in the SEALs?”

“I don’t think about it and I’d like to keep it that way,” Danny snapped. He heaved a sigh. “Chin’s on it now, babe. We’ll find a counterspell.” He stalked over to Steve’s desk and unplugged the phone. “Just entertain yourself for a few minutes while we figure out a plan.”

“What’s going on?” Chin asked as soon as Danny waved him into the bullpen. His gaze made a rapid circuit between Danny and Steve and Kono watching from their respective offices.

“What’s going on is this island finds ever new and increasingly inventive ways of being bugfuck crazy.”

Chin didn’t take the slight against his home personally. “You have specifics, or should I start guessing?”

“Everyone in town is spontaneously confessing their darkest secrets. Something shady in the coconut oil, no doubt,” Danny snarked. At Chin’s steady gaze, he shrugged and added, “We were at booking (which is a zoo right now) and it was crazy - people were coming in off the street to turn themselves in. We left and Steve starting acting weird, even for Steve. He started saying… stuff,” Danny hedged, uncomfortable with sharing secrets that Steve certainly hadn’t been willing to share in the first place. “He said a couple of very un-Steve things.”

“Oo-kay?”

“Feelings, Chin,” Danny said emphatically. “Steve was having feelings.”

“Steve always has feelings,” Chin said, looking more concerned about Danny than Steve at this point. Steve was still watching them from his office, arms crossed and scowling in concentration. He was trying to read their lips, Danny realized. 

“And acknowledging them?”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” Danny nodded, hands starting to fly. “And then we came back here and Steve spoke to Kono. She immediately volunteered that she’d snuck an extra twenty minutes at lunch.”

They both looked over at Kono’s office. She stood in the doorway, obviously addressing them through the glass. Once she finished speaking, she smiled and sat down at her desk. 

Danny’d be happy if he never saw that particular smile again. Chin gaped at his cousin in fascinated horror.

“Yeah, that’s what Steve did too.”

“Huh. I actually think I know what it is,” Chin said, hurrying into his office. He returned with a thick bundle of papers. 

“I think this is our guy making a move. One of the spells from Maile Watne’s grimoire was a truth-sharing spell.” He riffled through the pages quickly, until he found the one he was after. Chin turned the page around and showed it to Danny.

Danny scanned the spell as Chin explained. Nalani’s round hand and careful illustrations depicted the spell clearly. It wasn’t Danny’s tradition, but he’d studied enough kama’aina forma since arriving in Hawaii to have a feel for the general structure. Several of the listed ingredients could have come from the destroyed hives. 

“It’s supposed to be a minor spell. I think it’s mainly used in the Kaneko family’s wedding traditions.”

“You’re saying people do this to themselves deliberately?” Danny’s voice gained a few octaves. 

“I think it’s kind of beautiful,” Chin said, snatching the spell back defensively. “You walk into your new life with a clear conscience. Or, if someone refuses, at least you know they’re hiding something.”

Danny scrubbed at his temples with both thumbs. “That has got to be the worst idea I’ve ever heard. I can’t imagine why it hasn’t caught on. Okay, so how do we break the spell?” 

“The spell is focused around a carved wood fetish. As the prospective partners unburden themselves, the confessions eat away at the wood. When they’ve exhausted their secrets, the fetish crumbles and the Speaker for the Bees completes the dismissal ritual.” Chin frowned at the page. “With all of Honolulu spilling their secrets and feeding the spell, that fetish isn’t going to collapse any time soon. But it shouldn’t have this large an effect, though. It’s a tiny spell – intimate.”

“Even if all the ingredients from the Kaneko hive system was powering it?” Danny arched an eyebrow.

Chin did some mental calculations and winced. “That would make a difference.”

“If the spell’s not going to burn out naturally, can we help it along?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. There’s a dispelling ritual too, but the notes on it aren’t as clear. I think I need to get Nalani down here.”

“Okay. You go get her. I think I have an idea about how to find the fetish.”

As soon as Chin left, Steve burst out of his office as though he’d been confined for days rather than minutes. He headed straight for Chin’s desk and started pilfering through the drawers. 

“What are you doing?” Danny demanded half-convinced that the spell had special complications for emotionally-stunted Navy SEALs. 

“Stealing from my very good friend,” Steve answered with a smirk that told Danny he thought he was being clever. “Which is bad and I’m very torn up about it.”

Danny caught up with Steve—dammit, that was clever. “That is so devious, babe. Why am I not surprised?” 

Steve’s grin redoubled in strength and Danny felt himself returning the smile. “Tell Kono to hit his locker. When she gets the urge, one item at a time—make it last.”

While he relayed the instructions, Danny fired off a text to Chin. _Ignore your office. Drive like Steve. Explain later._ With Kono happily ransacking her cousin’s locker, Danny returned to watch Steve at work. 

“So,” he said, from where he leaned in the doorway, feeling only slightly guilty about watching Hurricane Steve at work, “I got a look at the spell that caused this. It’s got to be Etienne.”

Steve nodded and absently stuck Chin’s stapler in one of his pockets. “I figured as much when Chin pulled out that grimoire.”

“Right. Anyway, the spell calls for a lot of components that could have been stolen from Watne’s bee hives: honey, wax, royal jelly. Do you think there’d be enough traces from the bees left behind to work a tracker spell?”

Steve stopped his pillaging and considered. “Should be,” he decided thoughtfully. “If I had something to anchor on.”

Danny jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing in entirely the wrong direction. “We’ve got like four bags of bees in cold storage at the crime lab.”

Steve’s face lit up. “That would do it. I’ll—” he broke off, remembering the curse. “I’ll set up the spell if you go get the bees.”

“I can do that,” Danny agreed, happy with the beginnings of a plan, “but I’m locking my office.”

“Wouldn’t stop me.” Steve’s eyes sparkled with challenge.

Danny, who recognized a losing battle when he saw one, settled for tossing an obscene gesture in Steve’s direction and departed with his office door unlocked.

  


* * *

  


Convincing Nalani Kaneko to help took less effort than Chin expected. Convincing her great-grandmother, on the other hand, landed pretty squarely in the Herculean category Chin had anticipated. Aulani had forbidden the girl to leave, and Nalani had dug in her heels with a stubbornness that was probably genetic. Then Aulani had glowered at Chin like he was personally responsible for her granddaughter’s willfulness.

The argument between the two women had raged in English and Pidgin, with detours through Hawaiian and Japanese. Somehow (and Chin was a little fuzzy on the details) it had carried the three of them out of the house and to Chin’s car, where he settled Aulani into the front seat and then loaded what appeared to be half a magical supply warehouse into the trunk. 

He chauffeured them back to the palace, wisely choosing to keep his head down and pray that no one called in the rolling-domestic.

When they got back to the office Chin could barely believe the disorder his teammates had managed in the scant hour he’d been gone. Kono had the contents of the armory spread out on every available flat surface and was going through the armaments with frightening zeal. Steve stood in the empty office they used for spellwork, in the center of the copper casting circle set into the floor; the room around him in complete disarray.

Kono spotted them and started to greet her cousin before snapping her mouth shut and banging repeatedly on the edge of the smart table. Chin winced.

Danny, summoned from his office by Kono’s commotion, hustled over to Chin and his guests. He greeted Aulani and Nalani politely while Chin hauled the box of ingredients over to the edge of the smart table and nudged a stack of extra clips aside to make room. “Hey. So, here’s the deal,” Danny said to Chin, “We can’t see any way around infecting you. But I’m sure your driving was awful and you feel really bad about every single infraction, right?”

He nodded and all but winked at Chin, willing him to understand via some complicated eye contact that probably would have held paragraphs of information for Steve. Chin puzzled it over and grinned in sudden understanding. “Right. I feel truly ashamed about…” He narrowed his eyes at Danny; sudden, terrible suspicion prickling his instincts. “What did they do to my office,” he asked in a flat voice.

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Danny said, too brightly to be believable. He turned to the Kaneko women and flashed a mega-watt charming smile. “Ladies, we will find you a place to work where you don’t have to interact with the contagion twins, and then we will get you on your way.”

“The Speaker,” Aulani raised her voice to address the entire team formally, though it looked like the words pained her, “would like to offer her services to the people of Oahu.”

“Mrs. Kaneko, I don’t think—“ 

She cut Danny off with an upraised hand. “My sister was murdered, her home violated. My family’s hives lie in ruin. Someone,” she practically spat the word, “is using a ritual we treasure as a foundation of our marriages to hurt our island. The Speaker offers her services.”

Danny looked helplessly to Chin for backup. Chin subtly shook his head and tried not to smirk, Kono had no such reservations—it wasn’t every day they ran into someone who could leave Danny Williams speechless. Apparently when Aulani came on board with a plan, she staged a mutiny and named herself captain. “Auntie” Chin addressed her carefully, echoing the formality of her declaration, “We thank you and the Speaker for your assistance. If I may have a moment with my colleagues?”

Aulani gave him an imperious nod. She ran an assessing eye over the rest of the office. Obviously Chin and Danny had been dismissed.

Chin caught hold of Danny by the upper arm and led him away before he could gather himself for round two. He steered them into the casting room where Steve was just closing his spell work. Kono fell in step behind them.

Danny barely waited for the door to close behind them before he exclaimed, “We can’t take a teenager into the field with us. Are you nuts? The old lady, fine, I’ll admit she’s probably tougher than I am; but a teenager?”

“She’s not a teenager, Danny—well, okay, she is a teenager; but she’s also the Speaker for the Kaneko Bees.”

“The bees are dead. There are currently no Kaneko bees.” 

Chin resisted the urge to smack Danny. He knew his friend was worried about involving a sixteen-year-old into a potentially violent confrontation, but that comment had been out of line. Chin brushed it off saying, “It doesn’t matter. She knows these spells. She’s been learning them for a decade. I don’t know how long it would take me to learn the dispelling ritual, but I don’t think we’ve got that much time to waste.”

Danny threw his hands up in the air. “Do I need to remind anyone of the state we found her aunt in?”

“No. Especially not Nalani,” Kono chipped in. 

“Oh my god, this island’s going to make me nuts. All right, fine. We’ll bring the kid— Sorry, the Speaker and her granny. Anyone else you want to invite along? Grace’s school is always looking for interesting and educational fieldtrips.” 

“Chin’s right,” Steve said, joining the conversation as he broke the casting circle in a shower of silver-blue sparks. He held the newly formed charm out to Chin for inspection. There was a bee caught inside a rich amber teardrop, it was lovely and infused with quiet grief. “We need somebody who can undo the spell, and we’re not exactly spoiled for choice here. Chin, I want you to stick with Nalani—keep her safe and get her anything she needs.”

The team wasted no time returning to their preparations.


	6. Chapter 6

The tracking pendant led them to an upscale shopping district full of boutiques and cafes; not exactly a likely epicenter for a minor cataclysm. The closer they got, though, the more obvious it was they were on the right trail. People milled in the streets, exhibiting a wide range of emotions from confusion to misery to anger. Some were fighting; some were crying; and some wore that creepy fucking smile. Danny could only hope that the emotional catharsis of confessing their crimes, sins and peccadilloes would help them to get over the psychological trauma

They drove slowly to avoid pedestrians who appeared to have lost all sense of self-preservation. Steve and Danny were in the Camaro, Danny behind the wheel for once while Steve focused on the tug of the tracker spell. Chin followed with Nalani and Aulani, both kitted out in body armor. Kono brought up the rear guard. HPD promised backup, but their officers were stretched thin and themselves succumbing to the spell’s power. The city was as close to chaos as Danny had ever seen it.

There did not seem to be a lot of commerce going on between confessions. Danny wondered if the curse was picking up strength this close to the source, or if duration of exposure had an impact. 

As if picking up on his musings, Steve glanced over and said, “I stole forty-two cents from the pencil tray in Chin’s desk.” He smiled and Danny shivered. “I stole the pencil tray too,” Steve added after a moment.

“One at a time, babe,” Danny reminded him, looking out the window so he wouldn’t see the smile on Steve’s face any longer. 

Steve directed Danny to a short side street that dead ended at a park. Danny parked well back from the shop Steve indicated. The last storefront in the row was marked by an elegantly curled wrought iron shingle advertising tea. They waited in the shadow of a building across and down the street while the rest of their party tumbled out onto the sidewalk.

“It doesn’t look like a stronghold of evil,” Kono said.

“That’s how you can tell they know what they’re about,” Danny said. “If your stronghold of evil looks like a stronghold of evil, you’ve done something wrong.”

Kono nodded like she was taking the information in for future reference. Danny hoped it was because she wanted to find a stronghold of evil rather than build one, and mentally crossed his fingers.

“So now what?” Nalani asked.

“Danny and I will make our way around to the back,” Steve said, because why choose the front door when he could drag Danny in by way of the dumpsters instead. “Chin and Kono, you set up on the front door. Aulani, I need you and Nalani to hold here until we know what we’re dealing with.”

The alley was narrow and littered with refuse from the shops that backed onto it. Each near-silent step made Danny more and more nervous until he was flying on adrenaline. They paused at the back door and Steve took a step back. Danny sent a tiny pulse of will against his binding. The curse stirred, but failed to latch on to any significant magics, telling him the shop’s wards were in passive day-time mode.

At Danny’s nod, Steve bent over the lock and used a grease pencil to trace a sigil onto the handle—he charged the spell and the lock released with a quiet snick. Steve grinned at Danny and pulled the door open. They moved through the backrooms silently. Steve crept up to the doorway leading to the tea room. He clicked his radio twice and then twice more, the go sign to Chin and Kono. Danny heard the answering signal in his earpiece and readied himself.

Danny mentally timed their standard three-count after the affirming signal, moving forward in concert with Steve as they burst into the main room. Chin and Kono were entering from the other side of the room. 

The only occupied table in the teahouse sat in a shadowed corner. A young man, a surfer by the look of him, sat in one of the seats. He froze, caught mid-laugh, and gaped at Five-0 in astonishment. To Danny’s surprise it was not Etienne.

His companion stood up. And up. And up.

The creature’s bristled head nearly brushed the high ceiling. Curling ram horns framed burning-ember eyes and a mouth crowded with tusks while inky, chitinous plates armored his broad frame. He held an ornate bowl delicately in one massive, clawed hand. In the other hand a biscuit was caught daintily between two curved talons. He raised his hand and waggled the biscuit in a tiny wave. “Greetings,” he said in a low earthquake of a voice.

Absurdly, Danny felt an impulse to return the greeting.

The demon – Utor the Devourer, Danny recalled – drained his bowl of tea and set it on the table. He lifted a wooden carving, easily the length of Danny’s arm, up from the floor; his palm dwarfed it. “Keahi,” he addressed his host, “I thank you for your kind hospitality.” He turned to Steve, who had edged himself between the demon and his team—and wouldn’t Danny have something to say about that later when they weren’t busy not dying—and said, “I believe that your business here is with me. Unless happenstance and a violent objection to tea have brought you to this place; in which case, we may still quarrel.”

“No, I think we’re here for you,” Steve answered, sounding remarkably calm.

“Very well.” His broad smile was the stuff of nightmares. He gave first Steve and then the team a formal bow. “I am Utor, of the arcana Belphegor. I will abide by the rules of combat as set out in the Ondyne accords. However, I ask that you not make of me an ungracious guest, and remove our dispute from this salon.”

Danny was sure he’d be reassured by that if he had the first clue what the Ondyne accords were. “Do you know what that means,” he murmured to Steve. 

Steve glanced at Danny and gave a hint of a shrug.

The four members of Five-0 backed through the front door of the tea shop cautiously. They fanned out on the street, clearing their shooting lanes.

Utor ducked, fitting himself through the doorway in a way that Danny’s mind quite frankly refused to process. Outside, he straightened with a series of grating crunches. He lifted his head, surveying the street briefly before sinking low to the pavement and exploding skyward. 

He came down half a block away at the verge of the greenspace. With a graceful sweep, he spun to face them and bowed again, low and mocking.

The volley of gunfire made him stagger backward. Puzzled, he stared down at his shoulder where one of Kono’s iron-jacketed sniper rounds had penetrated his exoskeleton. One talon traced an arc in the smoke that was rising from the wound and he huffed, his nostrils flaring wide in pain and anger. With a thunderous roar, he cast a spell that sent a wave of force over the street, pushing everything before it -- dust, debris, cars, and even a few paving stones. 

Danny smelled the mixture of ozone and sulfur at the same time he felt the protections woven into his binding flair to life, devouring the magic that washed over him and leaving nothing but gale force winds that staggered but did not flatten him. The newspaper box that slammed into his hip, however, hurt like a son of a bitch.

Kono popped out the alcove she’d sheltered in and fired off another quick series of shots. “Everyone okay?” she yelled above the roaring wind.

“I ran a stop sign,” Chin shouted back, managing to sound calm even in the maelstrom. 

“Good over here,” Steve answered, springing out of the bed of the pickup truck he’d ridden part way down the block. He began advancing on the park, picking his way through the haphazardly scattered vehicles. Danny hurried to catch up with Steve—he didn’t trust the idiot to not take on the demon by himself.

“I’m heading for the rooftops,” Kono advised. 

“We’ll keep him busy,” Steve said. He and Danny pushed forward down the street. Their gunfire dogged the demon, forcing him to retreat into the park and away from the occupied buildings. The team advanced steadily, timing their volleys to keep Utor under steady fire.

Guttural words rolled through the park and the team braced for another wave. No attack came, but when Danny risked another look, Utor crouched behind a translucent shield of sickly green light that had formed over one arm. Steve fired an experimental shot that sent bolts of yellow lightning across the curved surface, but failed to pierce the wall of energy.

“So much for plan A,” Danny muttered, more to himself than Steve.

His partner’s grin was disturbingly feral—Danny wasn’t surprised that Steve would enjoy taking on a demon. “At least we know it can be hurt.”

“Heads up,” Chin said over the coms.

A thin voice filled the air with the lyrical rhythms of a kama’aina spell; this magic tasted warm and green—pulsing with life and growth. In the heart of the park, behind the demon, an old banyan tree twitched and moaned. Branches and aerial roots reached for Utor, entangling him and dragging him backward into the tree’s embrace.

“Go Battle Auntie,” Kono chirped from her new perch, placing shot after careful shot wherever the shield failed to cover Utor's body as he writhed and twisted in the tree's clutches.

Steve and Danny darted forward, concentrating their fire on the arm clutching the fetish now unprotected by the shield. Utor roared as the bullets struck home. Black ichor streamed freely from dozens of smoking wounds. 

A jagged tear opened midair behind Utor. A traversing spell, Danny realized, but inexpertly wrought. He focused his gunfire there, but Utor surged, tearing his shield arm free and raising it to protect the portal. Jovan Etienne stepped through and tumbled the short drop to the earth.

Etienne flung a hexbag at the banyan. It exploded on contact and Danny saw decay rippling out along the limbs and roots. Utor wrenched himself free as the rot consumed his restraints. He landed with a thud that nearly shook Danny from his feet.

The demon stayed in a low, defensive crouch. Behind his sheltering bulk, Etienne scorched a casting circle into the turf. Danny had seen that trick before—it was a showy, but unreliable piece of magic since a conjured circle lacked the intention of a manually crafted one—such a circle could never be as strong an anchor for magic as one wrought in metal or stone, even chalked lines would be sturdier. Etienne was sloppy with his craft—that was useful. Something he read about Utor’s history tickled at the back of Danny’s mind and he realized he had the start of a plan.

  


* * *

  


The spell connecting Aulani to the banyan tree collapsed with a dull snap that Chin felt even from his place outside her drawn circle. A whip of rotting green energy, shot through with oily black tendrils, lashed back through the connection at the elderly woman. She staggered backward, gasping as the corrupted spell slammed into her shielded circle. The energy washed up and over the protective dome and dissipated. 

Aulani wavered visibly. "Gesu yarō," she swore, spitting on the sidewalk to clear the taste of tainted magic from her tongue.

"Tutu, are you alright?" Nalani's eyes were wide and frightened, though her voice was steady. Chin realized it was probably the first time she'd ever seen battle magic deployed outside of a practice bout. 

"I'm fine, keiki," Aulani answered, though the ashen cast of her skin told Chin that she was putting on a brave face for the girl. "Caught me by surprise is all. That witch is a cyclone, all strength and bluster but he'll blow out quickly and he holds nothing back for defense. Get me closer and I'll see to him."

Chin considered the raging gunfight and detonating spells at the far end of the street. "Closer's not a great plan, what about higher?"

Aulani's sharp smile would have looked equally at home on a shark.

"Kono, we're heading your way," Chin warned his cousin. 

It was a motley trio that hurried up the street to the building where Kono perched. Nalani staggered beneath the supplies and ephemera Aulani had packed, while Chin half carried the elder witch. He could feel Aulani trembling with exertion, and by the time the group had climbed the five stories to the flat rooftop, Chin suspected it was sheer stubbornness that kept her upright. 

He left her resting on the lipped frame of a skylight, supervising as her granddaughter began carefully chalking a new circle. Chin set his own protections in the four corners, charging the spell and anchoring it with a small koa wood carving.

In the park below, Steve and Danny continued to harry the demon like terriers taking on a boar. Their rhythm of attack and retreat created openings for her rifle. It was working, after a fashion, and they were wearing Utor down. 

Beyond the demon, Chin could see the burned lines of Etienne's circle. Aulani was right—everything appeared offensive with nothing held back for defense.

Kono didn't look up from her scope when he approached. "If we can get him to drop the carving," she said, firing off another round, “I think I can pull it from here. I've been practicing on my surfboard.”

Without even looking up she rolled her eyes and added, "What? Practice is practice."

"If you put half that energy towards studying, you'd be a better witch than I am.”

“I prefer bullets, you know that.”

Down in the park Utor released another tempest, forcing them to duck and Steve and Danny to retreat to hard cover. The building juddered underfoot. Etienne sent a wall of flames licking over the scene and Chin tried not to breathe in as the air filled with noxious fumes. 

Aulani's voice rose behind him, calling forth a blast of cool, ocean-fresh air that smothered the flames and pushed the cloud of smoke and fumes back towards Etienne.

Chin undid the leather band on his left wrist and brought it to his lips. As he murmured the words of a fire spell the silver studs began to glow red, then yellow, and then a bright dazzling blue-white, while the leather shriveled and burned. When he could no longer bear the heat against his palm he opened his fist and flung the studs out into the air. 

They rushed towards Utor like a tiny swarm of bees. One of them struck the shield, dying in a shower of quicksilver sparks that hissed and spluttered darkly against the green. A second followed, and the shield flickered as the silver drained its power. The remaining studs swarmed around the edges and struck the demon's hide, sending him into a frenzy of pain and rage. As he clawed at his smoldering flesh the fetish tumbled free and was snatched away by a whirlwind that danced over the debris.

Kono guided the vortex and its heavy prize upward to her perch, Chin could see the slight tremor as she used her lifting hands as the focus for her spell. He didn’t have time to be impressed with her improvised technique—down below in the park, Steve and Danny had also taken advantage of the wounded demon’s distraction and launched a ferocious attack. They moved in concert, gunfire timed to further divide Utor’s focus. Chin supplemented their action with a barrage of offensive spells.

Nalani scurried forward to snatch the fetish, hurrying back to the circle she'd prepared for her own spellwork. Kono shook out her arms and sucked in heaving breaths.

Etienne threw a desperate spell towards the ground at Steve's feet. Earth churned violently as a large furrow appeared in the concrete road and rocks spat from the ground like fired cannonballs. A watermain ruptured, flooding the scene and combatants beneath a geyser. The sidewalk beneath Steve convulsed, tossing the SEAL backwards. 

Chin watched in helpless horror as Danny started toward Steve and stepped into the path of Utor’s slashing claws—the blow caught him solidly, raking the small human from side to side. Danny launched into the air, tumbling as he fell. He slammed hard into the side of a truck, and dropped limply to the pavement in a hail of safety glass.

Steve was at his side before Chin had yelled Danny's name. 

A solid wall of green shrubbery sprang up around the two vulnerable men. Aulani shook with exertion but she held the wall steady. Kono snatched up her rifle again—fatigue forgotten in defense of her ohana.

Chin threw his anger at the Etienne and the demon. He spat out every offensive spell he knew off-the-cuff, as fast as he could gather the will to charge them. 

With the ground attacks disrupted, Etienne turned his spells toward the rooftop. Chin found himself pressed into defense. He countered flame with water pulled from the gushing pipe. He diverted another wall of force with a feat of will that left him shaking. The carving he'd used to anchor his protective spells was smoldering—Chin concentrated on throwing as many spells as he could before the figurine burned up completely.


	7. Chapter 7

Time went wrong at the edges for Steve. The frenetic battle broke down into a series of stutter-stop snapshots: 

Earth surging underfoot. 

The weightlessness of sudden flight and the hard jolt of landing. 

Danny—

Danny caught on razor sharp claws.

—body flung in a low arc.

Steve felt the impact against the truck in his own bones.

He didn’t actually remember covering the distance to his partner. There was no thought; no intention. He simply blinked from one place that was not with Danny to another that was.

Steve crashed to his knees; hands frozen midair, hovering and afraid to touch. He knew the basic combat first-aid spells that every magically adept SEAL received. Medical magic wasn’t his strong suit by any stretch; but he knew enough to keep soul and body together long enough for actual medical personnel to arrive.

It didn’t matter anyway—even if he were a world class healer he couldn’t use any of it on Danny. He could, however, use the physical first-aid skills he’d learned during his SEAL training.

Sharp squares of glass dug into his knees through the sturdy fabric of his cargo pants but he ignored the pain. He forced himself to press his finger to Danny’s throat. He nearly wept at the strong, steady pounding of the pulse beneath his touch. He was further reassured by the steady rise and fall of Danny’s chest.

With the same breathless care he would use to move unstable ordinance he rolled Danny onto his back. 

There was no blood.

Steve blinked.

Danny’s tactical vest was shredded. The armored panels were ripped in parallel gouges that ran from low on Danny’s side, up to the opposite shoulder. One gash had penetrated deeply enough to tear the blue dress shirt and scratch a scarlet welt across his skin.

But there was no blood.

Danny’s face scrunched up and he squinted up at Steve. “Ow?” he said, turning the sound into a question.

“Jesus, Danny.” Steve felt his bones going liquid with relief. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” Danny grunted, gingerly testing his limbs for damage. He frowned down at his chest, hand drifting up to finger the ruins of his Kevlar vest. “You owe me a new shirt, McGarrett,” he grumped.

Steve beamed at him. “Sure, Danno.”

“Help me up.” Danny held out his hand and Steve took it, pulling them both upright.

“You okay?” Steve asked, sharp eyes cataloging every wince and tentative movement.

“I think I’m good,” Danny answered, rolling his shoulder cautiously. He cocked his head, puzzled. “Uh, maybe not. Has that—was that there before?”

Steve did a double take. A twelve foot tall hedge bramble had sprung up, surrounding them. “No,” he said, gaping at the wall of green. “That is definitely new.”

The illusion of sanctuary was shattered by sporadic gunfire and the roars of the demon. 

The hedge shuddered. Through the foliage, too translucent to be real, Steve could see the massive bulk of Utor slashing violently at the intertwining limbs. “We’re gonna have to make a run for it. We do not want to get trapped in here with that thing.”

Danny groaned. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Steve asked, trying to divide his attention between Danny and the demon raging a few yards away.

Danny shook his head. “No, I’m not. I’ve had a really terrible idea.”

“What?” Steve asked, all of his attention focused on Danny.

Danny laughed. It sounded high and slightly hysterical. “Don’t worry. You’ll love this plan. This has Steve McGarrett written all over it. Except for the part where you don’t get to do the crazy thing.”

Steve’s stomach clenched. “Crazy? Danny, what are you going to do?”

“This will either work… or destroy Oahu. If this doesn’t work, I am really, really sorry.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I know. I just need you to keep the big guy occupied.” Danny drew a couple of deep breaths, and Steve recognized an internalized pep-talk up when he saw it.

The protective spell was failing—parts of the green wall had already faded. They had seconds at best.

Steve’s hands, acting on their own accord, wrapped around the shoulder straps of Danny’s tactical vest and pulled.

It was not a kiss for the ages. There was an awkward clashing of teeth and way too much adrenaline. Danny tasted of mud and sweat and exhaustion. It was messy and abrupt and kind of a disaster. It was perfect.

Steve released Danny, panting hard. “Do not destroy my island,” he commanded. 

He checked his clip, and as the sheltering spell fell, he set about creating a diversion for Danny. As he darted forward, already firing, he heard a shout behind him. 

“Timing, Steven!”

  


* * *

  


Danny put his head down and charged through the remains of what had been a very pleasant park. He summoned every ounce of will in his body and compressed it into a tight ball in his chest. When the pressure became unbearable he flung the accumulated power outward against the binding curse as hard as he could. The curse screamed to life, gorging on the sudden glut of Danny’s magic. 

The fine threads of the binding spell flared with power and Danny was startled to see that they were visible, glowing with tarnished silver light. He had never thrown so much power at the curse and it devoured his magic greedily, shredding the gathered will and pulling at the tattered remnants. Danny let go of his magic, terrified that the curse would consume it all and leave him burnt hollow. 

The curse was awake and insatiable. It sucked a security spell off the door of a nearby shop, gulped down a gang’s territorial marker without even registering it. The attacks that volleyed back and forth between Etienne and the rooftop twisted away from their targets to arch toward Danny, stretching like salt-water taffy. A lance of flame that would have battered Chin’s failing defenses instead curved toward Danny. The fire attenuated into thin wisps of power that dissipated before reaching him. Danny ignored it all, his entire being focused on reaching the witch at the center of the maelstrom. 

As he approached Etienne's circle, the hair on his arms rose and tingled—it was like standing at the heart of an electrical storm wearing a tin-foil tuxedo. Green sparks skittered across his skin, arcing from silver thread to silver thread in a maddening itch that was just this side of pain.

The taste of aluminum made Danny’s teeth ache; he clamped his mouth shut, afraid that if he unsealed his lips the magic would force its way in and burn him from the inside. 

His knees folded, slamming down into the scorched line that marked the edge of the circle. The magic wobbled, lashing out in increasingly erratic waves. Danny’s skin felt like it was on fire. Power washed over him, and the curse howled like a living thing. It shredded the circle and sucked the magic into itself.

Gray static filled Danny’s senses. He let himself sink.

  


* * *

  


Steve lost himself in the familiar dance of evade and attack, drawing Utor away from Danny. It had become a game of endurance and the score was too close to call. Steve’s ammunition and adrenaline were both nearly exhausted but the belpheg was also looking distinctly ragged. Ichor streamed from dozens of wounds and his vessel seemed to become less corporeal as the thick black blood boiled into vapor in the afternoon air. 

Darting around an upended slide, Steve slipped in the mud. It was an uncharacteristic stumble that saved his life. Utor’s claws raked the air just over Steve’s head. Steve flattened himself, squeezing beneath a metal slide. He popped up on the other side, firing bullets at the demon until he heard the stomach-clenching click of an empty magazine.

He dropped the empty rifle and drew his knife in a single fluid motion. He coiled into a fighting stance and readied himself.

Utor met his eyes. Steve thought he recognized a measure of respect in the unearthly gaze. 

A unexpected shockwave roared through the park, burning away the oxygen and leaving a silence that was absolute. The saccharine taste of rotting fruit flooded Steve’s senses and then was replaced by a tide of sharp ozone. 

Utor’s raised claws dropped slowly to his side. He huffed; the noise as loud as a shout in the stillness that encompassed them. 

The maw crowded with yellow teeth and tusks stretched broadly into what Steve refused to name a smile. Utor sniffed the air, his wicked claws kneading the air. His grimace grew impossibly wider. He chortled.

Steve felt the sound trace up his spine. 

The killing blow never came.

Utor turned and loped across the park in long strides that tore up the earth and sprayed mud behind him and then he dropped to all fours, galloping toward the now silent circle.

Steve, somehow, found it in himself to run after him; racing toward where he could see Danny on his knees, chin folded to his chest, hands lax on his thighs. Steve wasn’t going to beat the beast.

Inside the circle, Etienne sat up, woozy from the magical backlash. His clothing was singed and smoking slightly. He looked up in horror at the looming Utor. Etienne threw up his hand and screamed in broken Latin.

Utor never broke stride.

He caught the flustered witch up in both hands, claws sinking deeply into warm flesh. 

Etienne screamed again, wordlessly.

A deep, rolling laugh boomed through the demon, shaking him from shoulder to toe. Etienne rattled bonelessly in that terrible grip. The air surrounding the pair shimmered and collapsed inward with the rolling thunder of an abrupt vacuum and the lingering echo of demonic merriment.

Steve stumbled the last few steps to Danny.

Danny was a mess. He was covered in mud and half drowned, the ruined tac vest a testament to just how close they’d come to death today. Tiny green lightning bolts flickered across his skin. Steve could see the twitches as Danny’s muscles convulsed to the lingering current but the rise and fall of his chest was steady. 

Steve couldn’t help himself. With careful fingers, and for the second time in an hour, Steve checked his partner’s throat for a pulse. A spark raced up his arm and left Steve numb to the elbow.

Danny, looking as though it caused him great effort, lifted his head to blink wearily at Steve. “Idiot.”

Steve laughed—wild and reckless with relief. “Takes one to know one,” he shot back. “That was impressively stupid.”

Danny huffed a small laugh and winced. “Told you, you’d be jealous.” His eyelids drooped.

“You okay?” Steve asked, careful and serious.

“Give me a minute?” Danny asked. He closed his eyes and let his head drop forward again. His hands clenched into fists and then opened, smoothing down the front of his thighs.

“Sure thing, Danno,” Steve said, patting Danny on the shoulder gingerly—but the spark had already discharged.

He left Danny’s side to oversee the scene’s transition from action to documentation and check in with Chin and Kono—Steve needed more than their voices on the comms, he need to see his team. 

Kono met him on the street, carrying a bag of bottled water she’d retrieved from the vehicles. She was thrumming with the sort of manic after-action energy that needed a focus before it turned destructive. Steve sent her to coordinate the HPD units that were finally arriving to assist. 

Chin was still on the roof with Aulani and Nalani. He looked to be approximately five minutes from lapsing into a coma, his reserves utterly drained by the extended magical battle. Steve handed him a water bottle and dug a power bar from one of his pockets—it was only a little mangled. He left the rest of the bag nearby, not wanting to disturb Aulani and Nalani as they conferred over the statue that had caused so much chaos. 

Satisfied that his people were more or less whole, Steve headed back down on the street to assess the damage.


	8. Chapter 8

Chin sat wearily on the skylight frame next to Aulani. Everything ached and he wasn’t sure he trusted his legs to carry him down the stairs just yet.

Even with the danger over, he found himself watching over the two Kaneko women. Aulani looked as exhausted as Chin felt, but she held herself proudly. Nalani had withdrawn into a casting circle with the confession-compelling fetish. She labored over the glyphs she was chalking on to the rough carving under the watchful and weary eye of her great-grandmother.

The statue—already desiccated and warped from the battle—began to break into large chunks. Nalani crumbled the pieces between her fingers, letting the rough ash sprinkle into the bowl of ingredients she’d already assembled. She sang as she worked, thanking the bees for their gifts and love. The song was low and gentle.

Nalani poured oil over the bowl and mixed it in with her fingertips, working the pulp into a fine paste. Her song changed, picking up the rising rhythm of an incantation. She scooped up some paste on her first two fingers and traced over the glyphs she had drawn on the ground.

As she finished the chant and released the spell, Chin felt a warm wave of well-being wash over him. He was still tired, but buoyed by a peculiar sensation of weightlessness. The magic that rolled outward from Nalani tasted bright and sweet.

Aulani was watching him with a knowing look. “Truth sharing isn’t easy. The magic provides a balm for the sting it inflicts.” She lifted her face skyward and closed her eyes enjoying the peaceful sensation, a gentle smile curved over her usually stern lips.

Nalani dismissed her circle and the anchoring spell parted like a shimmering mist. She stood up and brushed the dirt from her knees. “The magic will also blur most of what people remember about today.”

“How can they not remember,” Chin asked,

She arched an eyebrow at him.

Chin tested her assertion. He found that if he tried to recall conversations from earlier in the day, everything after his return to HQ with Nalani and Aulani had taken on a blurred quality. He could remember his movements throughout the entire day quite clearly, but the afternoon’s words were muted. “Why?”

“The spell doesn’t force you to share your secrets, just your truth. People should have a sense of whether or not they can trust the people that they spoke with; but the details will be fuzzy.” A sleek black bee with a bold yellow face alighted in the hair near Nalani’s ear, smoothing the fine strands with its forelegs.

“Huh,” he said. “That’s going to make for some awkward conversations tonight.”

Aulani cackled. “Maybe some conversations that need having.”

Nalani rolled her eyes at her great-grandmother. “Hush, tutu. The spell was meant to be between two people who already have a level of trust.” Chin noticed three more bees had joined the first one in her hair, and the air on the rooftop was starting to fill with a gentle buzz.

“You know that people confessed to crimes,” he said, thinking of the chaotic scene Danny had described at booking.

Nalani shrugged. “Hope they took good notes?”

Chin groaned. “The Prosecuting Attorney’s office is going to love that.” He had visions of trying to explain the day’s events in court for the next year and shuddered. “We still have to document the scene, and we’ll need statements from you both but we’ll get you on your way home as quickly as we can. Today would have gone differently without your help—both of you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Aulani said with more warmth than Chin had heard from her so far in their brief acquaintance. “For my sister and for my Speaker, thank you. You have a friend in the Kaneko family should you ever be in need.”

Nalani put her hand on his shoulder and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Your family is wrong,” she told him as she stepped back. “I would speak for you, if you would like.”

Chin bowed his head formally, indicating that he understood what she offered. “Thank you, Speaker, but I have chosen this path—I will see it through.”

* * *

  
It was near dark by the time Danny caught up with Steve as the SEAL leaned against the bumper of the truck that had so helpfully caught Danny during his altercation with Utor. Steve was leaning against the vehicle, mutely watching HPD wind down the crime scene; too tired even to speculate how much fallout there was going to be from the governor for this afternoon’s work.

Danny slouched next to Steve, crowding into his space without actually looking at him. At some point, he had changed out of his ruined tactical vest and shirt; his hair was still a mess, but he’d done his best to wash the worst of the mud from his skin. He was beautiful as far as Steve was concerned.

“You kissed me,” Danny said it matter-of-factly, but the way he kept his eyes on the still smoking scenery betrayed his tension.

“I did,” Steve answered, carefully matching Danny’s tone.

“On purpose?” Danny asked, watching Steve from the corner of his eye.

“How many times have you been kissed by accident?” Steve asked, turning to study his partner.

Danny snorted. “You’d be surprised. Newark Pride Festival gets pretty lively.”

“I’m not so sure those were accidents,” Steve said, grinning at him.

Danny shrugged, but Steve could see that his neutral expression was finally starting to crack. “I’m just saying, it didn’t feel like an accident.”

“Well you’re the expert in stealth kissing,” Steve teased.

“There was nothing remotely stealthy about that, Steven,” Danny chided, the effect somewhat undermined by the dazzling smile he leveled at Steve. Steve wanted to taste that smile. So he did.

Danny still tasted of mud and exhaustion, but instead of teeth, Steve got the warm surrender of Danny’s mouth beneath his own. He let himself drown in it, chasing Danny’s lips with soft nips.

Strong hands slid up to cradle the back of Steve’s neck, thumbs caressing a line down his jaw—coaxing Steve to let Danny take control of the kiss. Steve moaned; the sound obscene and full of promises. He felt his ears burn.

Danny chuckled, breathy puffs of air that tingled on Steve’s skin. “Crime scene,” he murmured against the corner of Steve’s mouth.

Don’t care,” Steve answered. He wrapped his arms around Danny and pulled him close, intent on showing Danny how little the venue mattered. Danny’s pained hiss was like a shock of cold water.

“You’re hurt?” he asked.

“Just bruises, babe, I promise.”

Steve stepped back far enough that he could smooth his hands over Danny’s chest. The memory of Utor’s claws raking through the tac vest was frighteningly clear. “Let me see.”

“I’m not undressing at the crime scene.” Danny grumbled.

“You should see a medic.” Steve gestured to the broken windows and dented door panels of the truck. “You didn’t see how hard you hit.”

“No, I was too busy doing the hitting.”

“I’m serious, Danny. You should get checked out. I can make it an order.”

Danny looked away and then back at Steve with a disbelieving laugh. “You haven’t even gotten into my bed yet and you already want to sleep on the couch? Steve, if we do this, you are not the boss. I mean, any more than your usual caveman tendencies.”

“When it comes to your safety I am,” Steve snapped. He scowled, intending to make Danny see reason. But, Danny looked pale, his eyes dull with weariness. Steve’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, I know I’m not, but—a demon, Danny—you didn’t see. I thought—“

“Hey, hey,” Danny soothed. “This is a ‘partners’ thing, Steven. We look out for each other, right? If I thought it was anything, I’d take care of it.”

Steve nodded tightly. “We’re almost done here anyway. You should go pick up Grace and…“ He hesitated, not certain he had the right to ask for what he wanted yet. “Umm … you could come over?”

“Steve—“

He could read the gentle refusal in Danny’s eyes and hastened to add, “Nothing like that. Just … today could have been bad.”

Danny was quiet for a long beat, eyes scanning Steve’s face. Steve didn’t know what he saw, but eventually Danny made up his mind with a firm nod. “Okay. Grace and I will come for dinner and a slumber party, of the G-rated variety.”

Steve beamed at him and held up his hand in the three-fingered scouting salute. “I promise. Nothing that will make you blush tonight.” He leaned over and murmured against the curve of Danny’s ear, “I can’t say the same for tomorrow.”

The shuddering breath that ran through Danny kept Steve grinning all the way home.

* * *

  
An hour and a half later Steve was at his front door paying for two large pizzas: one pepperoni (in deference to Danny’s easily offended sensibilities) and one Hawaiian. Steve took not-so-secret delight in his ongoing corruption of Grace’s pizza preferences.

When he shut the door and turned back to the living room, Danny was sprawled sideways across the couch dead asleep and Grace was tucking a blanket around her father with intense concentration. Steve watched her work with a fond smile. Once her father was thoroughly swaddled from the neck down, she beamed up at Steve. “Danno needed a nap,” she informed him.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. He nodded toward the dining table. “We’ll save him some pizza for when he wakes up.”

Grace climbed up into a chair and leveled a steady, measuring stare at Steve. “Today at school was strange,” she said with the same accusatory tone he frequently heard from her father.

“Was it?” Steve asked, setting out plates and flipping open the Hawaiian pizza box.

“Yes,” Grace said firmly. “It was strange and nobody remembers.”

The way she said it tugged at Steve’s ear. “Do you remember, Gracie?”

Grace chewed her lip and regarded Steve critically. “Yes,” she finally admitted, “but I don’t think I should say so.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “I think that’s a good idea. We’ll talk about it with Danno when he wakes up.”

Having settled that for now, Grace happily tucked in to her slice of pizza.

Steve puzzled at Grace’s revelation while they ate. He figured that Danny had been immune to that piece of the spell the same as he had been to the rest of it, but he couldn’t figure where Grace fit.

Grace broke off her exhaustive explanation of the school yard politics surrounding birthday party invitations—Steve had tracked just enough of the monologue to conclude that not even the diplomatic corps could untangle the snarled web of reciprocity that ruled the playground—and gave a huge, stretching yawn.

“Bedtime, kiddo,” he said.

“Okay, Uncle Steve,” she agreed around a second, smaller yawn and left to fetch her overnight bag from the living room.

While Grace brushed her teeth and changed into pajamas, Steve washed their plates and left them on the rack to dry. He spooned fresh coffee grounds into the French press and marveled at the warm life that filled his home—the soft thumps of Grace’s steps as she climbed the stairs to Mary’s old room; the solid, anchoring weight of Danny’s presence in the living room; even his own movements in the kitchen cast a spell of alluring domesticity over the quiet night. It was a world away from the mausoleum he’d come home to.

As Steve crossed the living room, he debated waking Danny and sending him up to bed in the guestroom. His partner was drawing the deep, even breaths of the utterly exhausted—Steve watched the steady rise and fall of Danny’s chest for a long moment and didn’t have the heart to disturb him. He reached out, gently twitching the blanket a little higher on Danny's shoulder.

“Night, Danno,” he whispered softly.

On his way past the front door, Steve pressed a hand to the smooth wood and let the house’s magic run across his fingertips like water from a spring. The threshold was still fragile—decades of history couldn’t be replaced in a handful of months—but its core was vibrant and growing strong on the warmth of the people who filled his home with noise and life. A family by choice and by chance—his ohana.

He charged the night-watch wards and turned off the lights, and then went up to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art masterpost for Speaker for the Bees](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6427945) by [sillyowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sillyowl/pseuds/sillyowl)




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